


Étude

by xlydiadeetz



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Classical Music, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Existentialism, Grief/Mourning, Healing, High School Arc, I have no idea where this is going or how it will end, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Music, Musicians, Orchestra, Other, Pain, Past Abuse, Pianist!Auguste, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Sports!Damen, Violinist!Laurent, but let's pretend I do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 194,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7746652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xlydiadeetz/pseuds/xlydiadeetz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The heart has a melody. Once you discover it, there’s no going back.” </p><p>Present day, Auguste is dead. The Golden Pianist is gone, and Laurent finds himself completely alone in the world. Haunted by the ghost of the promise he never accomplished, he goes through the stages of grief as he remembers his brother and deals with the return of a high school crush who makes him start to believe once again in the beauty of music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ballade

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Here we are again. This time, with a long fic.  
> I know, I'm surprised too.  
> Anyway, this is a classical music AU, mostly inspired by my Captive Prince + Classical Music thread in Twitter.  
> I'll be honest, I have no idea where this is going and I'm a bit nervous and scared for how It'll develop. But, Let's pretend I totally do. This is a very emotional story so if you're here for smut and smut only, I'm sorry. It's also divided in two parts: one (and the main one) being about Laurent mourning Auguste with Damen beside him, and the other about their past in High School and how they ended up in this mess of angsty situations. 
> 
> As always, I wanna thank Montse for being an awesome beta, and Ellen for discussing this story with me and encouraging me to write it<3 
> 
> Enjoy!

Laurent de Vere woke up, and thought he had finally reached a conclusion: when you’re grieving, you feel numb, like you have another ten layers of skin and you simply cannot feel a thing. But also, when you’re grieving, there are moments where the numbness goes away, and a rush of emotions strikes you hard like a bullet to the heart. And in those moments you think, ‘That’s it, I’m going to die.’ But you don’t. And the pain doesn’t go away. And sometimes it can last for days, until the numbness comes back.

 He thought that maybe, he deserved it.  He had refused to see Auguste during the final moments. He had refused to say goodbye, because he couldn’t bare it. Instead, he had walked away from his brother and waited for the moment they told him, ‘He’s gone’

And just like that, his older brother had disappeared from his life. They both knew what was going to happen, Laurent knew Auguste was dying. But the shock of losing him like that, one moment they were kids, making music with toy instruments. And then the other Laurent was sitting in a chair next to his hospital bed, reading him novels. Sometimes, Auguste would ask him to play him a song. Laurent would refuse each time, not even giving him a fair reason. Even being stubborn and cruel, Auguste always understood. And that was more infuriating, so Laurent never gave in.

***

“Why don’t you play something, Laurent?” he had said one day, while he looked out the window.

“I thought you wanted to know how the novel ended.”

“I already know the end. William will die, but his heart will be given to Lucy. Alex doesn’t know it, until Lucy says one of Will’s phrases. She says, ‘I am what I am, and what I am I will always be. But if one day I’m not what I am, and what I am becomes someone else, will our lives still be connected? If, one day, I come back to you, will you know it’s me, or will I lose that too? Is my soul what makes me, or I am what makes my soul?’

“You cheated.” Laurent had said, closing the book and letting it rest on his lap.

“I was lonely.” His brother then had turned his head and looked at him. His smile as bright as always, but his golden hair had lost all shine, and his fair skin had turned paper white. His lips chapped and almost colorless. In spite of everything, Auguste kept smiling.

“Did you like it?” Laurent murmured.

“It was lovely. But I’m sure you think it was really cliché.”

“Indeed. And highly unlikely that Alex would have put his brother’s heart in Lucy, without knowing who it belonged to. And Lucy, did she have a reason to be there at all?”

“At least she played something for Alex.”

“I can’t play the violin in a hospital room, Auguste.”

“Why not? Music brings life and joy and colours. I think playing violin in a hospital is quite a good idea.”

Laurent had stayed silent, and Auguste didn’t insist. He only smiled at him, like he always did. “Perhaps next time, then.”

***

He wondered if it would have been different. Logic said his brother dying had been inevitable, but, if Laurent had played him a song, would it have been the same? Would he feel the same? Or will his heart feel less guilty? If guilt was the word for it, he didn’t know.

Remembering…lately, all he did was remember. He found himself trapped in a maze of memories, a chain he didn’t know how to untangle. In spite of it all, he rose from the bed and prepared himself for the funeral. He wished he could have escaped, but he had to be there. They didn’t have anyone else in the world, Auguste and Laurent de Vere only had each other, and now, Laurent was left completely alone.

He thought of Chopin, and his first ballade. It was about loneliness, and also one of his most famous and best compositions. Why was it that one likes better the work of an artist when they have suffered? Why was it that, pain and sorrow became also beauty and joy? The world was oxymoron, like music, like love, like life. Pain made the world what it was, and even so people found joy in living. Even when death was present everyday, even when you know you’re going to die. You love, and it breaks you. You play the violin, and your fingers end up bleeding. You are a musician, and your sorrow becomes music, and music lives forever.

Laurent stared at his reflection. He looked like he always did, impassive, cold-livered, he had taught himself not to display any emotions, being Auguste the only one able to see through his charade. It should be easier now for him to pretend, being that the game he was best at. Pretending, faking, lying. Walking away, avoiding goodbyes, playing the violin.

If there was anything true in his life, it was the violin. And that is why it had to go.

He had decided, he wouldn’t play anymore. His brother was the musician, and he was just a follower. It had always been like that. Auguste was the one who wanted to learn piano. Laurent only chose the violin so he could follow him. So they could be together, and play duets. There were pieces only for violin and piano. Pieces only they could play. Pieces they made theirs, and that became a part of them.

He walked out of his home and drove to the cemetery. He still didn’t know how his body managed to do most daily things in autopilot. It was like if Auguste had taken his mind with him, for it was very far from the reality. He made it there somehow, and as he stepped out he realized the day was sunny and hot, even when summer had already ended.

Everyone was sweating in their black clothes, he couldn’t make out the faces of the people that gave him their condolences. He was an empty vessel, a chinese doll in the corner, anything but a human being. As the preacher started talking, he thought again of Chopin, and his first ballade.

_Ballade no. 1 in G minor, Op. 23._

It was, in fact, the song Auguste had last played on the piano. The song he had won his last piano competition with, before he had collapsed and found out he was sick.

_“I am grateful, Laurent. Talent isn’t free, you must pay a price. If this is my price for being able to play such a beautiful instrument, then there’s nothing left to do. I have loved every minute of the black and white keys, as I have loved every minute of being your brother.”_

By the end of his performance, people in the auditorium were crying. His music reflected so much beauty, and such great agony. Agony comparable to _La Dame aux Camélias_ or _The Red Shoes._

_Agony comparable to his own._

Had Auguste felt agony himself?

The thought of it made his stomach twist and he made himself think of something else. But how could he, when he was in front of his brother’s coffin? When he was watching it go down metters undeground, where he’d be eaten by worms and his bones will disintegrate after years of decomposing?

“Nephew.”

_Oh._

_No._

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to meet his uncle’s eyes. If he already felt nauseated, he thought he would be sick any minute now.

“Uncle.”

“Times like these call for family to stay together. You’re welcome in my house for as long as you need. Have you been eating properly? Auguste would be so disappointed if you didn’t take care of yourself.”

Laurent wanted to scream. But he wasn’t the type to do so, of course. He stood silent, and then in a very calculated and cold voice said, “I do not need your compassion, uncle.”

“Oh, nephew. I know how hard it is to lose a brother. When your father died, I was very distressed. But having to take care of you and Auguste became my priority. I couldn’t allow myself to fall into depression, with two young boys to raise.”

“Very distressed.” Laurent repeated, as if mocking the words.

His uncle’s smile had disappeared, and his tone was threatening. “Nephew.”

Laurent was turning around, ready to walk away and leave that place. He didn’t need condolences, or sympathizing faces, or more fights against his uncle. Couldn’t they see he was falling to pieces? He felt like Marguerite Gautier, dying with undending agony, thinking of all the might have beens, regretting her ultimate choices.

_If Laurent had played him a song, would it have been the same?_

"Laurent."

He stopped. He knew that voice. It was a warm, rich voice. He let himself look up, in spite of it being against all the warnings in his head. The man in front of him, he recognized immediatly. The years had passed, but he was still the same big, dark skinned Damen he once knew. His factions weren’t those of a boy anymore, but a man.

He swallowed against bile. Everything was too much already. Too many faces. Too many words, and sounds, and emotions. He didn't need Damianos D'Akielos here. Not someone who reminded him so much of his brother.

“Damen.” Laurent said, and cursed himself for not using his full name.

Damen gave him a small smile that reflected his own sadness. His heart, and the rest of his internal organs seemed to ache all at the same time.

“It’s a shame we have to meet again like this.”

“It’s a shame we have to meet at all.”

He couldn’t help it, the words were out of his mouth before he could think twice about them. But Damen seemed unperturbed.

“I’m sorry, Laurent. Auguste was one of my best friends. When I got the news I…took the first flight here.”

When Laurent didn’t reply, they stood facing each other for a long minute. It wasn’t entirely awkward, the air between them was filled with sentiment and solitude. Both of them were mourning, but where Damen would allow any kind of comforting, Laurent had built a wall around himself.

“I visited him once,” Damen started and Laurent’s heart beat raced up considerably. That, he didn’t know. “I bought him cream puffs, and we talked about the old times, you know? High school, and his music, and our friends. I didn’t know that would be the last time I’d see him, even though he said goodbye. He told me he knew he didn’t have much left, and that you refused to see him. So he gave me something for you.”

Damen reached for the pocket inside his tux and took out a white envelope. He reached it out for him and Laurent took it reluctanctly.

“Is that all?” Laurent asked. And he saw in Damen’s expression that he was concerned, and almost a bit disappointed.

“Yes. No, actually, wait,” he said once Laurent had started to walk away, “I’m going to be here. We,” he corrected himself, “are here. Jord, Nikandros, and me. We’ll be here.”

Laurent nodded. If he thought of it, he was sure he had seen Jord and Nikandros too. But he didn’t care at all about the funeral or people. He wanted to go home.

No, actually, he didn’t want that. He just wanted to disappear completely. He got into his car and tosed the envelope on the passenger’s seat before driving back home.

Auguste was worse than a cliché romantic novel. He had left him a letter, a ridiculous, pathetic letter about feelings and forgiving and forgetting. He could see him writting it, in his hospital bed, with a dumb smile on his face.

What was he thinking?

 

Laurent de Vere got home, he undid his tie and kick off his expensive shoes made of pure italian leather. He stepped into his room and allowed himself to collapse on the bed. His knees gave in, and his breathing was uneven. He wasn’t crying, but his chest hurt like he was having a heart attack.

 _Another stage of grieving._ He thought.

He crawled on the bed like a wounded cat and hugged into one of his pillows. He had to move soon, out of that house. Half of himself wanted to get out as soon as possible, but the other half wanted to stay. This was their parents house. Auguste’s things were still here; his room still had his clothes, and his trophies, his books, his piano. A part of Auguste’s life was still suspended into that room that he couldn’t go into. He had locked it up with a key, and he refused to open it again.

Now, he was alone.

It had never bothered him before, being alone. He found at a very young age that he worked better by himself. But loneliness and solitude were two completely different things, because, no matter how bad everything looked, he always had a person beside him.

Now, he was _lonely._

Exhaustion reigned over him and he allowed himself to sleep. If sleeping would soothe the pain, at least for a few hours, then he’d give in.

And he did.

***

“Are you ready?” Auguste asked and placed his fingers over the piano keys. Laurent nodded, his fingers gripping the bow tightly. They had been practising for weeks now, preparing for their first music competition together. To be fair, it was a violin competition, but Laurent refused to accept any other pianist that wasn’t Auguste.

“Ready.” Laurent nodded and the piano started. Auguste was still looking to Laurent when he started playing.

The key to the song was the movement of the wrist. Too fast and it would sound too strong and wrong, too slow and it would lose the impact. It was a song to be played gracefully, calmly, mastering the changes of rythm and emotions. It was a song for Laurent, as Auguste had said.

Laurent enjoyed the song, he felt he could express himself through the chords of Camille Saint-Saëns. He wasn’t good at opening himself, but the music did that for him. His violin sang the words and thoughts he never said outloud. His violin held the secrets of the most personal corners of his mind. He loved it, he loved the weight of it on his shoulder, and the callouses on his hands product of daily practices. He loved touching the strings and sliding his hands up and down the fine, barnished and polished wood. This wasn’t his first violin, the one he started with, but it was a gift from his parents. A personalized model, unique, one only he could have.

He was sure he was impassive as he played, but Auguste looked at him with a grin, like knowing the exact thing that was crossing his mind at that second. Joy, happiness, excitement. They would win, for sure. Laurent’s interpretation of _‘Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso’_ was clean and true to the composer. But at the same time, he gave something to the song. Something his, that made it stronger. Maybe it was arrogance, or part of his natural beauty. Maybe it was just talent, or maybe something more. Something that made the violin scream, ‘This is me. This song is mine.’

They were sweating, but as the song reached it’s end, the sound grew stronger. They couldn’t stop. When you play a song, any song, it takes you down to a spiral of thoughts and emotions that are simply indescribable. It’s a different kind of adrenaline, and you forget to breathe. You can only think of the music. Sometimes, you don’t even listen to it. You’re so immersed into the emotions that your ear and brain disconnect for a moment, letting your heart do the job.

“The heart has a melody. Once you discover it, there’s no going back.” Auguste had told him once, and he hadn’t understand. But now he did. The heart has a melody, and once it starts playing, you can’t make it stop. An ever-lasting music box inside of you, that guided your fingers on the piano, the violin and any instrument. It becomes your anthem, your signature, your share of harmonies to the world.

Laurent smiled as he reached the end, it was a long of almost ten minutes, and when he played the last chord, Auguste followed. Both of them remained quiet and still for a minute, catching their breaths, cleaning the sweat from their foreheads.

“Again?” Laurent said and then both of them bursted out laughing.

***

He woke up, gasping. The room was dark, and he supposed he had slept for hours. The flashbacks had reached his dreams. He was sweaty and it was raining outside. Pouring, almost. His thoughts came in fractioned pieces of different words and images: dream, Auguste, violin, Damen, funeral, rain, envelope, melody.

Envelope.

He had left it in the car.

He got up and quickly rain to the main door, he didn’t care that there was a storm outside, or that he didn’t have any shoes on, he ran outside and to his car. He jumped into the driver’s seat and dried his wet hands on his pants before grabbing the white envelope.

At first, he wasn’t sure of what he expected. A letter, mostly. But it wasn’t a letter. He swallowed and his brows frowned in confusion.

Music sheets.

His hands started shaking and small drops of his wet hair fell on the paper, a dark circle forming over one of the letters of the title, in Auguste’s handwritting.

_‘Untitled – For Laurent._

_Little brother, would you play for me sometime?’_

His eyes wandered down to the chords he knew how to play perfectly, chords his mind immediatly recognized and started singing in his head.

_No._

He didn’t want to think of it, or say it, for he’d acknowledge it, and if he did, he’d have to keep it. The score, the envelope, the music. His chest contracted and he thought his violinist heart must be aching with loss, for he had decided to leave the violin, and now his brother had left him an unfinished song.

_An étude._

 

 


	2. Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back.
> 
> I'm actually updating the day I promised to, I'm proud of myself.  
> It was so hard for me to write this chapter, because this story is still some kind of mess in my mind. But I'm trying. God, I really am. I love this concept and I must finish. 
> 
> Thanks a lot for all your kudos and comments, you make me so happy! Also thanks to Montse, as always, for making this a coherent chapter, and Ellen, my beautiful beta who stopped me from deleting this story from AO3 in a moment of weakness. And thanks to all of my twitter mutuals who are reading this too! 
> 
> Enjoy!

When Hennike and Aleron died, Auguste played Laurent a song.

Laurent was a mess of tears and snot, dressed in a black suit that only made his skin looked paler than it already was. He was hiding under his brother’s big black piano while still wearing his funeral clothes. Laying down in the fetal position, his head against the cool wooden floor, his small feet curled up on himself. When Auguste found him, he didn’t pull him out from under the piano. In fact, he didn’t even touch him, or talk to him. Auguste sat at the piano, and started to play. One of his feet touched Laurent’s face playfully, making Laurent giggle while tears still ran down his cheeks. Auguste smiled at him, despite the pain in his heart, and kept playing.

The song wasn’t a classical, but it held the same intimate feeling of one. It was a simple harmony, meant to be played slowly, using the same chords over and over again. At first, Laurent didn’t recognize it. Confusion and curiousity must have shown on his face, for Auguste then started to hum along with the melody.

And in that moment, Laurent knew.

It was their mother’s song. It sounded different on the piano, but it was the same lullaby Hennike used to sing her two boys to sleep. It made the river of tears leave Laurent’s eyes again, as he remembered his mother. She was always smiling at him. She never really got mad at them, never yelled or punished them. She loved to tease and play, she loved to read them stories, and sing them lullabies. Her long collection of songs she composed herself, including her favorite. It was a dreamy melody, full of melancholy. Unlike many of her other songs, this one didn’t have lyrics. It was just a humming. Laurent remembered, how she’d pick him up and cuddled him in her arms. She’d slow dance around the living room with him on her arms, petting his head and singing softly for him.

 

_“Don’t worry, baby boy, as long as I’m here, nothing can ever harm you. When mommy’s here, nothing can go wrong. Nothing bad happens.”_

 

But now, she wasn’t here. He felt the loss of his mother like he had never felt anything else.

He was sobbing, and he pulled at Auguste’s leg.

“Auguste.”

Auguste stopped playing, but never stopped humming. Not even when his own voice broke, as he started to cry himself. Auguste crawled under the piano and both brothers held each other as they hummed a lullaby. Their pale cheeks were red, and tears were still blooming out of their irritated eyes. Still in funeral clothing, they found themselves musicians and orphans, hiding under a big black piano, singing what became their anthem and also a song of farewell. Farewell to their mother’s chocolate-chip cookies and strawberry shortcakes. Farewell to their father’s loud, warm laugh. Farewell to the star-gazing camping trips they made during the summer. Farewell to the short, practising concerts of violin and piano they used to give their parents every Christmas. Farewell to the threatening voices of their parents during dinner as Auguste insisted on teasing his little brother. Farewell, and a thank you. And a lot of _I will miss you._

“Do you think they can hear us?” Laurent whispered.

“I’m sure our terrible singing will reach them, yes.” Auguste whispered back, and they both shared a small laugh.

“Will they be okay?”

Auguste stayed silent for a minute. It wasn’t like their parents were religious, and they didn’t know what to believe in, either. Maybe the afterlife, or maybe not.

“Mom once told me that, in her past life, she was a flower.” Auguste said, finally.

“A flower? How can she know that?”

“She said she remembered being a red tulip, dancing with the wind, enjoying sunlight. Being pollinated.”

“Maybe dad was the bee, then.”

“Maybe.”

“Will we be okay?” Laurent asked next, and Auguste held him close.

“Don’t worry, brother, as long as I’m here, nothing can ever harm you. When I’m here, nothing can go wrong. Nothing bad happens.”

 

But those promises called to be broken, for now, Auguste was also gone.

 

***

 

He was selling the piano.

A few days after his brother’s funeral, Laurent decided he had already had enough. Grieving or not, he had to stop being pathetic. Like a lost kid trying to find someone that was out of his reach. Now, he was alone, yes, but he was also a twenty year old man who’d have to return to reality sooner or later.

He hadn’t left that house in days, and he was starting to feel annoyed. The first thing he did was clean out the spoiled food from the fridge. How he’d survived on only crackers and some cereal he didn’t know. Cleaning kept him busy, but also it allowed him to clear his mind from the thick fog that had been clouding his head since Auguste passed away. Somehow, between taking out the trash and organizing his books, the idea came to mind.

He needed to sell the piano, and also his parent’s house.

There was no point in staying in that house anymore. It had always been too big for two people, and he thought that if he had to stay another night alone in there, he’d start to go mad. Auguste loved that house, as well as their parents, but honestly, Laurent couldn’t care less. The people that mattered were gone. Staring at an empty house with their old belongings wouldn’t make him feel better. It was more practical to sell it and get an apartment for himself. Maybe one closer to the college campus. He thought that he could include the piano along with the house, but selling such a big property could take a while; he didn’t want to waste more time.

That piano was Auguste’s heart. If he could let go of it, he could get rid of the rest of his stuff.

He opened the windows, organized his books, took out the trash and made a shopping list. He dressed up in his favorite skinny jeans and a blue sweater, then he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked the same. He was Laurent de Vere, but something had changed. Like when trying to smooth a sheet of paper that had been crumbled way too many times, it always left scars. Laurent felt he was covered in invisible scars no one could really see, just himself. He thought that, whatever felt different inside of him now, was the process of emotional pain leaving another mark on his body.

As he closed the main door and stepped outside, he noticed the presence of someone else, staring at him. He looked up to meet a young woman’s face. She was a petite brunette with hazel eyes and freckles, she possessed the beauty of an ancient goddess and a more impressive mind. She was dressing in black. A black sweater, a black skirt and black ballet flats. Her long hair was tied up in a side braid. She looked like a star that had lost it’s light.

Their eyes met, and she gave him a small smile as she walked towards him with a box.

“Laurent.” she said, revealing only the most subtle of accents.

“Victoria.”

She was Auguste’s fiancée. The girl he was going to marry next spring. A wedding that never came, a life that never happened. Victoria represented the ghost of a future that was taken from his  brother. A future that for her, was no more than a dream now.

“I should have come earlier, but it took me some time to be able to gather up everything and put it in a box.” said Victoria as she tightened up her grip around the cardboard. “Some things…I decided to keep. But these, I thought you should have them.”

Laurent took the box from her and they stared at each other for another minute, before he broke the silence. “You could keep the rest if you wanted.”

She shook her head and smiled like she knew a secret he didn’t. “There are some bonds I can’t break. If you don’t want them, I’ll take everything back. But, really, I think Auguste wanted you to have those.”

Victoria went to touch his shoulder but stopped. The way she looked at him next was sad, searching in his blue eyes  an answer to a question he couldn’t find, for it wasn’t for him.

“He loved you.” He said. It was the truth, and something that connected them. Both had been loved by Auguste, and they had loved him too. Laurent liked Victoria. She was intelligent, talented, educated. She was the Golden Princess of the Golden Prince of piano.

“Goodbye, Laurent.” she whispered and left a small kiss on his cheek before turning around walking away. However, she stopped again midway through the garden and asked, “Do you play?”

“No, I…no.”

“You must. The only thing we can do now is play, even when destroyed, even when being torn apart into pieces, we must play.”

And then, she was gone.

 

 _What would she say,_ he thought _, if she knew I tore apart Auguste’s last étude?_

 

He had, in fact, torn it to pieces.

After that night in the rain, he ripped it apart, and the scattered pieces were still now in the trash can of his room. He was furious at his brother, his violin was sent flying across the room and the unfinished song was destroyed.

He couldn’t play.

He _wouldn’t_ play.

It was out of the question.

But still, the pieces of paper were there.

 

He went back inside and opened the box, although he had suspected the content would be mostly books, due to the weight. They were the books Auguste had read while being in the hospital. Between the titles, there were some he had read too. _Norwegian Wood_ , _Tsukuru Tazaki and his years of Pilgrimage, Transtromer’s Selected Poems and a vision of the memory_ . They were all very existentialist, and also very sad. He found his copy of the book they had read together, The _Rose Labyrinth_ , -which was a pathetic try of copy of The Da Vinci Code, mixed with a dull romance between an ill patient and her doctor, _How could Auguste like that_ ?- and also two novels he didn’t know. _Artificial Paradises_ was a thick paperback, the cover being completely pastel blue, with the title in black letters and the shadow of a bird flying in the distance _. A monster is crying_ was the opposite, it was very thin, consisting only of one hundred-thirty pages, the face of the author in a white background was the cover. Those two were probably the last books Auguste read.

In the box there were also notebooks, some journals filled with chords and lyrics. Probably songs he composed when he was bored. He wondered what were the things Victoria took, but that wasn’t his business. He put the box in his room. The books, he’d keep. He couldn’t let go of them, no matter what.

Finally, he left the house. He turned on his phone and ignored the constant buzzing of incoming messages and lost calls. Most of them were from Jord. He was the only friend he had, if the definition of the word friendship applied to their relationship. They had met in high school, both of them were music students. Jord didn’t play any instrument, but was part of the chorus. How Jord had kept contact with him after graduation was something he never really came to understand. But it seemed that, as much as he tried, he couldn’t push him away.

_You still have your phone off, I guess. Call me, please._

That was the last message from him, sent a few days ago. He let out a sigh, but didn’t reply. Instead, he went grocery shopping.

He actually felt better, being out of that house. Maybe it had some kind of karma, as he himself was cursed. He couldn’t be happy, the concept of happiness was too abstract and strange to him, a Laurent who had lost more than one can think of losing. When he walked out of the supermarket, it was pouring. A downpour, soaking him from heads to toe as he ran to his car. He thought he had finally make it, when suddenly, he ran into a wall. He fell backwards and almost hit the floor, but someone was holding him. He looked up, raindrops hitting his nose and cheeks.

“I got you,” Damen said, worried eyes on him.

The wall he thought had hit him was in fact, Damen’s chest. He was holding onto his arms, and Damen pulled him closer to him, helping him steady his feet.

“I thought I had ran into a wall,” said Laurent, frowning in confusion, and then, “You’re still a giant animal.” Damen laughed, his body shaking and so shaking Laurent too.

“I’m sorry,” He said.

“I should be the one apologizing.” Laurent got off Damen’s grip, and recollected his plastic bags from the floor, who were now just as soaked as him.

“No worries.” Damen took the bags from him, “What’s your car?”

“I can carry them myself, thank you very much, and the black one in the far end.”

“You could have parked a little more distant from the entrance,” Damen said with sarcasm, but before Laurent could reply, he was already walking to the car. They left the bags in the backseat, and Laurent climbed in quickly, trying to avoid the rain. He turned on the engine, and rolled down the window.  “You should change clothes as soon as you get home.” Damen said.

Laurent looked at him like trying to decipher something. Damen had always been a problem he couldn’t solve, no matter how much he tried. He was honest, too honest, and also a giant fool. He was clumsy and coarse, so he never really understood why he made Laurent’s heart flutter like a bird in a cage. It was a long time ago, but he still remembered the way he used to feel while watching Damianos and his brother running around the football field together after their afternoon classes. Or how he flushed deeply whenever Damen listened to him playing the violin in the music room, and how he hoped and prayed he didn’t notice.

“Why are you still here? I guessed you’d be going back home after the funeral.”

Damen shrugged, “I’m taking the time to visit old friends.”

“Old friends. I didn’t know you had friends beside Nikandros.”

“Some of us aren’t that terrible at social interaction, you know.”

“Right.”

He grabbed onto the wheel and was about to leave when Damen’s expression changed into something more serious.

“How are you doing? I mean….you know what I mean. If there’s something I could do—“

“I’m fine. You should worry more about yourself, if you stand any more in the rain you’ll probably get pneumonia.”

“Seriously though, if you need anything, you know you can call me.”

“Thank you, Damen.”

He drove away, leaving Damen standing alone in the rain and watching the car disappear. It wasn’t until he was back home, changing off his wet clothes, that he had an idea.

A terrible idea.

He stared at his brother’s piano in the living room,  untouched, collecting dust and bringing him painful memories.

 _I’m going to regret this,_ he thought.

He needed someone strong to move a piano.

 _I think I could use your help with something,_ he texted Damen.

It wasn’t long before he got a response.

_What do you need?_


	3. Withering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Omg, I'm updating one day before I promised to. Aren't I great?  
> However, I'm not satisfied with this chapter, at all. I'm sorry if I disappoint you.  
> Anyway, thanks for all of your comments and kudos, they mean the world to me<33 Also thanks to Kelly and Becky, my Pain partners, for encouraging me and yelling at me and letting me beta both their stories. (Along For the Ride and Beyond The End of the Stars) They're amazing, go check them! Thanks to Lee and Ellen, beautiful and smart betas for making this story even better. 
> 
> P.S. I want to dedicate this to my grandpa, who passed away while I was writing it. Grazie per tutto, nonno<3

 

 

> **withering**  
>  you learn to cope  
>  with the aching feeling  
>  of wanting to see sunlight  
>  from dawn to dust  
>  as you carry  
>  the heavy burden  
>  of your drying leaves  
>  because you know  
>  you want to die  
>  because _you need to live_.
> 
> -r.m.d

He stood outside for a minute, catching his breath, before he opened the door.

Auguste was lying on the bed, covered by a thin blanket. Laurent thought he was asleep, but as he walked in Auguste turned his head to him, opening his eyes weakly.

“Laurent.” He whispered, his lips curving into a small smile.

“Auguste.”

Laurent sat on the chair next to the bed without another word. He’d been sitting on that chair for months. He hated that he’d felt used to it. To the routine. Everyday, he’d go to classes and then spend the evening with Auguste. Sometimes, like today,  if Auguste was feeling really sick, he’d stay overnight too. Even when, in the middle of his delirium, Auguste insisted he was fine, Laurent stayed.

“I thought you wouldn’t come today, since you had your admission exam.”

“It was already finished when they called me.” He said, as he took out a blanket from his bag. He threw it over Auguste, tucking him in like a child. “The nurse said you were cold. I also brought you some sweaters.”

“You’re always so attentive, little brother.” Auguste chuckled and tried to sit up, only to realize his arms were indeed too weak to help himself up. Laurent noticed this, and pushed him back down softly.

“Stay down. I can just adjust the bed.”

Auguste nodded, and Laurent pressed the buttons to bring the bed up so his brother would be in a sitting position. Auguste relaxed against the pillows and then smiled weakly.

“Tell me, how was it?”

Laurent inhaled before answering, “Easy. I didn’t find any particular difficulty about it. People were really nervous, a guy fainted and two girls puked. I was lucky I wasn’t sitting next to any of them.”

Auguste laughed softly, “Well, I never took an admission exam, but I imagine I would have been pretty nervous too.”

“I think you would have been just fine. Plus you had to have an audition for the music conservatory. I imagine it must have been a similar experience.”

“Similar, yes, but not the same.”

“How was it? Your audition.”

“It was…really fun.” Auguste smirked.

“Only you would describe a traumatic experience for most normal people as ‘fun’.”

“But it was fun! I was really nervous, but also very excited. I had been in a lot of piano competitions, and that only made it worse. People were expecting so much of me, I spent weeks practising nonstop. I skipped meals and football games, I could only think of the music. To play it perfectly, but without it being boring at the same time. To make people feel something. To make them see me through the song. Of course, I also wanted to get into the conservatory really badly. Composing is…what I’ve always wanted to do.”

As he talked, Auguste focused on some dead point in the wall, he looked lost in thoughts. Lost in memories that seemed to have happened too many years ago.

Laurent looked at his hands for a moment. There was a knot in his throat, and his heart ached with every single beat.

“Laurent.” Auguste said, and reached out to take his hand. He squeezed it softly. “Look at me.”

He couldn’t. The only thought in his mind was that his hands were really cold, when they had always been warm.

“Look at me.”

This time, Laurent did. He looked up to meet his brother’s eyes. They were sad, painfully sad. When a person you love is dying, you have to be the strong one. You have to be there for when they need your strength. You have to be their support. And Laurent had tried to be. God, he had tried so hard to be. But it was devastating to see how they took life out of his brother. How it was slowly leaving him to wither like a flower in winter. How his breaths were no longer steady but weak and slow.

“You’re such a strong boy.” Auguste said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t like you.”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize, Auguste, this wasn’t your fault. Don’t talk in past tense, you’re still alive. You’re still here with me.”

“I just…I don’t want to leave you alone.” His voice broke as he spoke, and his hand was shaking slightly.

Laurent’s lip trembled, “Then don’t. Please…don’t leave me.”

There was a silence before any of them spoke again. Night was already falling, and it would not be long until one of the doctors came to check on him again.

“When you feel lonely, when you miss me, play me a song. I will come, and listen to you play. I promise you, Laurent. I will be here.”

“What if you are reborn as a flower? How will you come to me?” Laurent asked, and hid his face from his brother. He didn’t want to see him cry.

Auguste smiled, “Because I love music. And so, that’s what I shall become.”

***

 

He arrived punctually, early on a Saturday.  Laurent opened the door with a cup of tea in his hand, and he was there. Damen, in his light blue, faded jeans and a white shirt. Damen, smiling brightly, like a puppy who was happy to see him. Damen, with his dark eyes and curly hair, neatly tied up in a bun to keep it out of his face. Damen, who didn’t understand his choice of giving away Auguste’s piano, and most of his belongings.

Damen, who asked too many questions.

“You want to sell Auguste’s piano?”

They had been discussing the matter of selling the piano for the past fifteen minutes. Although Laurent didn’t look irritated he very much was, already.

“You can’t. Laurent, it was… _his_.”

“It’s just a piano, Damen. And now, it’s mine. It’s in good condition and I wish to sell it. I don’t need it, and I could use the money.”

“Money? For what? You already live in a big house and—“

“That’s none of your business.” Interrupted Laurent, sending him a long glare. “Now, are you going to help me move it or not? If you’re just going to stand there trying to apprehend me like if I was a child, you can get out. I’ll call someone else, or move it myself.”

“He was my best friend.” Damen murmured.

“Well, he was my brother.”

That seemed to put an end to the subject. They stared at each other for another minute, before Damen asked, “Can you at least tell me why?”

_Why?_

Was there any other reason apart from his brother being gone? He wasn’t a pianist. He never played the piano, even when his brother was alive. Auguste had taught him how to, and he learned basic songs, but he had focused most of his talent and time on the violin. No one would use it, it was just there, in the middle of the living room, covered in books and mugs and maybe some dead bugs.

_But, was that enough of a reason to give it away?_

He had grown up with that instrument. Seeing it, touching it, sleeping underneath and on top of it. Watching his brother play, making it sing for him. Listening to his mother composing lullabies. The piano had lived in the house longer than he had. He wasn’t sure when they bought it, or why, or from who, but it had always been there through Laurent’s life. Seeing it go was hard, rather sentimental, but he had seen many things go already, he thought he could endure it once more.

And it was simple, the reason why. Auguste had died, and that day, he also took Laurent’s music with him.

There was no music inside him, anymore. It was all gone. Every chord, every harmony, every étude and symphony and pavane and lullaby.

They all withered like a garden of roses.

“Because, I can no longer play.” he said. And felt a twist inside of him, his violinist heart shaking violently. “I’m…out of songs. Auguste took them all with him.”

Damen looked at him, his expression serious but also worried, and kind. He took a few steps towards him slowly, carefully, like if trying not to scare away a stray cat.

“But, Laurent, when musicians run out of songs to play, they make new ones.”

“I’m not a composer, that was him. It was always him.” He admitted. The truth,  painful when leaving his mouth, made him shiver, his heart beating faster than it should. “I was only his accompanist.”

“You never sounded like an accompanist.”

Laurent looked up to meet his eyes. Damen smiled at him and flushed slightly, “I remember. I always loved to listen to you play. It was relaxing. I don’t know about music, but you never sounded like just  an accompanist to me. Both of you, you played with…the heart. Listen to Auguste play wasn’t the same as to listen to you. Where Auguste was strong, kind and transparent, you were refined and pure and…. And, when you played together, it was like an endless battle between brothers.” Damen said as he pressed one of the piano keys.

_Ah._

_So, you do remember,_ he wanted to say.

But he didn’t. He didn’t say anything. Because when he was about to, Damen sat down on the piano, he blew away the dust, and smiled. Laurent watched as his fingers moved, like if they knew what to do, life if they knew how to play.

“Damen, what are—“

But he couldn’t finish, for Damen was now playing. It was a simple melody, a little bit out of tune, but it sounded childish and funny. He was clearly having troubles keeping up with his big fingers. “Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are.” He sang softly, although he missed the last chord and made a terrible sound. “Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky.”

Laurent closed his eyes and inhaled for a minute, before completely losing his temper. He wanted to yell at him, to make it stop, to make him _stop touching his brother’s piano._ But he couldn’t. All he could do was listen to Damen’s clumsy and mediocre interpretation of a children’s song and remember how Auguste had taught him the same melody when he was only five years old. It was a vague memory, one of those he thought he had forgotten a long time ago.

In spite of the pain that it brought to him, he smiled.

Why? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was because Damen was a terrible musician. Or because, he had also been one too, at five years old. What happened next both of them didn’t know how or why it happened. Maybe it was Auguste’s influence, maybe it was just the piano, pleading him not to give it away. Maybe it was everything, or nothing, or just something inevitable.

Laurent walked and stood over Damen as he played, his right hand finding its position immediatly, like a perfect machine. What started as the english lullaby _Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star_ became an interpretation of Mozart’s _Twelve Variations_ on "Ah vous dirai-je, Maman". Damen blinked and stopped playing, only watching Laurent’s hand move gracefully on the keyboard.

_“When playing the piano, you must be gentle. Like a lover. If you are giving to the piano, it shall be kind to you. It will understand you. You know, you must give something. When you’re playing, play for someone. Play for something, play about something. And then, the piano will do the rest. It’s like when you play the violin. Instruments are our most intimate friends. Our soul connects to them, and that is how we become musicians. Music is the language of the heart.”_

And then he stopped, like snapping out of a trance.

The memory of him and Auguste was gone, and he found himself standing over Damen, their hands almost touching on the piano keys. They stared at each other, surprised, confused, but Damen looked happy, and proud, like he had achieved something.

_What happened?_

Why did he play?

Why did he _want_ to play?

“You’re a terrible musician.” Laurent said.

“And you are terrible at not being one.”

“Stop.”

“No.”

“Damen, stop.”

“Laurent, can’t you see what just happened? You were wrong, you still have music inside of you. You still can play. You’re not moving on, you’re just hiding. You don’t want to sell the piano because of it becoming useless, you want to sell it so you don’t have to face the truth.”

“Damen—“

“You’re afraid. You’re afraid of being alone.”

“You don’t understand anything. How could you? You don’t know what is to wake up everyday and walk around feeling like you’ve been dismembered. You don’t know what is to watch your brother collapse on stage, be rushed to the hospital and told that he’s dying. That he has a little less than a year of life left. You don’t know what it is to spend every evening in a hospital room with the person you love most in the world fading away, slowly leaving for a place you cannot follow. You don’t know what is it to watch Auguste’s heartbreaking because he couldn’t achieve his biggest dream. Because playing the piano hurt him, and then…then you find yourself having everything he couldn’t. How can I play? How can I enjoy what my brother lost?”

_How can I compose an étude when the composer was him?_

_How can I play for you, Auguste, when you’re gone?_

_How can I enjoy music? That wouldn’t be fair for you._

Damen stayed silent, for the first time since he had arrived. Laurent’s breathing was uneven and his hands were shaking. He needed him gone.

“Help me move the piano.”

“Laurent, I’m sorry…I never meant to…I just wanted to help.”

“Then start grabbing the other end.”

They both managed to grab the piano, and carry it to the studio at the end of the hall. Of course, Damen was way stronger, and did most of the job himself. When they finished, they were sweating.

Damen sat on the floor, his back against the wall. He cleaned sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and looked at Laurent, who was awkwardly standing by the door.

“Would you like something to drink? I have water and some lemonade.”

“I’ll go with the lemonade, please.” Damen nodded.

Laurent walked to the kitchen and served two glasses of lemonade. One, he drank it fast, like it was a shot of vodka. He looked at his right hand, the one he had played the piano with. It itched.

 _“Laurent, when you play the violin, who do you play for?”_ Auguste had asked him one day, when they were kids.

Damen.

He used to play for Damen.

Hoping it’d reach him, hoping for a minute that  his heart would do the talking for him. Auguste had noticed, everyone had noticed. But in the end, it had been a childish, insignificant crush. It never meant anything. Their paths drifted apart.

So why?

Why now, after all these years, did he still play for him?

***

 

Damen sat alone in the studio, with the piano. Fighting with Laurent left him mentally exhausted, like when they were kids. Dealing with him had always been hard, but now it was impossible. He was hurt, broken, and trapped in the vicious circle of breaking his own heart over and over again. And Damen could only watch. He thought of Auguste, and the promise he had made, the last time they had seen each other.

_“Promise me, Damen, you won’t let him give up on music. Show him, it can be fun again. Make him believe in it. Make him smile again. Help him begin again.”_


	4. Liebesleid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm posting early again! I can't believe.  
> This chapter was going to be called "Lemons" as a big, bad joke. But this story is serious, so I had to change it. I think so far this is one of my favorites, I really enjoyed writing it, even though most of it came to me around 2 in the morning.  
> I wanna thank you for your comments and kudos, they make me incredibly happy. Also thanks to Lee and Ellen, my wonderful betas (and cheerleaders) who will never let me forget all the bad lemon jokes that came up with this chapter. And Becky and Kelly, I still don't know how we became friends but I'm glad we are, I'm sorry I keep killing you on tumblr. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. I take the time to tell you all that I have created a [playlist](https://soundcloud.com/mari-cimino/sets/etude-a-captive-prince-fic-1) for this fic. There you can listen the songs I mention in the chapters, even the ones that I don't mention the names of, like Hennike's lullaby from Chapter 2 (called 'Fairy') I'll keep adding songs to it with every chapter, so stay tuned!

It was late spring. The windows of the music room were open, letting in a chilly but refreshing breeze. He could listen to the sound of the curtains, dancing freely with the wind, dancing to the rhythm of his music. His school uniform still intact after a whole day of activities, his blue tie perfectly tied up on his neck, his jacket buttoned over his white, long-sleeved shirt.

And he was smiling. Laurent never really smiled when playing the violin, well, at least not in public. Much less allow himself to close his eyes and just enjoy the sound. Enjoy the sensations of everything, instead of controlling. It was a rare occurrence, only to be seen by the luckiest of people.

One of those people was Damen.

Of course, Laurent was aware of it. He was aware of the dark skinned boy standing by the door, listening to him. He was aware of the blush in his cheeks, every time he thought of it.

_ Does he like it? _

He was also aware of the fact that there was an internal voice condemning his actions. He shouldn’t be worried about this. He shouldn’t care. Damen was Auguste’s best friend, and part of the football team. He was a regular student, his musical talent equivalent to absolutely zero. He was a giant fool, walking around giving smiles and kindness. Liking girls like Jokaste. Laughing at lame jokes with Nikandros. He couldn’t fit into Laurent’s world at all.

But, unfortunately for him, Damen was also ridiculously handsome, infuriatingly charming, stupidly attractive, and the worst of it all: he was honest. Too honest. Too good for his own good.

He was doomed. Laurent de Vere was completely, ridiculously, infuriatingly and stupidly doomed. He was smiling wider now, because even so, it was something funny. It made him feel good, and bad, and annoying, and nervous.

And good.

He liked liking Damianos, but he would never admit it. He liked the feeling in his chest every time their paths crossed. Like if a small drop of hope filled his entire body, making him light up. A warmth he never got tired of.

He could understand now, what Fritz Kreisler must have felt when composing  _ Old Viennese Melodies _ . Especially  _ Liebesleid _ , also called  _ Love’s Sorrow _ in english. Perhaps to Kreisler it had meant something else. Maybe the pain of losing a dearly beloved. Maybe someone breaking your heart instead.  But to him, to Laurent de Vere, it meant an embarrassing truth. A silly, childish truth. An unrequited love, a crush that was never to become something more. He was fine with that, just watching Damen from afar. He was fine with their small conversations about trivial things, like when he had asked Laurent why he didn’t like sports. He was fine, joining him and Auguste for ice cream on their way home.

He was fine, being quiet by his side.

But his violin wasn’t fine. The thing is, when you become a musician, you sign a contract. Laurent was to give everything to his violin, and it would take all his thoughts, dreams, hopes, tears, and laments,  and then make them music.

_ When you’re playing, play for someone. Play for something, play about something,  _ Auguste had said.

And his violin had listened. He had listened to his heart, and now was pouring out his most intimate feelings into  _ Love’s Sorrow _ . It was screaming, almost.

_ I like Damianos D’Akielos. _

_ Notice me. _

_ Listen to me. _

_ This is me, playing for you. _

Even if it was something to never be, he enjoyed the small moments where Laurent would play the violin, and Damen would just listen. Sometimes, Damen would step inside the music room and sit down, he’d close his eyes and relax, listening closely. Sometimes, when he was done, they would talk. Small talk, about the song, about the football game happening outside in the courtyard, where Auguste was laughing loudly and running to get the ball, Nikandros yelling some insults towards him, waiting for Damen to come back and finally help his team win. Some others, though, they wouldn’t say anything. Laurent would finish the song, and they would smile to each other. Like if their conversation had happened in the abstract and profound language of music. Like if Laurent’s feelings had finally reached him, and he had accepted them just like that.

Those moments where Laurent’s favorite ones.

The song was coming to an end.  It was short, after all. When played on tempo, it lasted a bit less than four minutes. He was tired, his fingers ached a bit as well as his back. He wanted to sit down and have a glass of cold water. But first he had to finish the song, and open his eyes.

He didn’t realize his heart was beating at almost one hundred kilometers per hour until he played the last chord and let his arms down, taking the violin off his shoulder. He licked his lips, which were dry and tasted like blood, a product of his bad habit of biting them whenever Damianos was around.

Finally, he opened his eyes.

Damen was watching him, and he smiled as their eyes met. One of his dark curls falling on his forehead gracefully, like he was a Prince.

“That was….” He sighed happily, “Very pretty, Laurent.”

“It’s called  _ ‘Love’s Sorrow’”  _ Laurent said, as he put his violin back into his case. With great care, he let his thumb slide from the scroll all the way down the fingerboard.

He whispered,  _ Thank you. _

“Whatever happened to  _ Love’s Joy _ ?” asked Damen jokingly, with a stupid grin on his face. A grin Laurent had troubles in hating.

“It sailed away once and never came back.” He said in a teasing tone.

“Next time, you should play that one for me. I would like to listen.” Damen smiled, pushing himself up from the chair and walking towards Laurent.

He smiled back, surprising them both.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t play something I’ve never felt.”

Laurent de Vere said a truth once, between many, many lies. He took his violin and left the music room, without glancing back.

 

***

“Here.” He said, as he handed Damen his glass of lemonade.

It was late September. The windows were opened, letting in a chilly but refreshing breeze. The days were getting colder and colder, and soon it would be autumn, then winter.

A winter Auguste would not see.

His first Christmas alone.

He had been so close to his birthday. On December 23, Auguste would have turned twenty-four. It was a mistake to think that day would not come, but he wished for it. Laurent wished he could skip it, erase it, forget it.

But forgetting was as easy as moving around the house a big black piano.

“Thanks.” Damen whispered, taking him out of his thoughts. He took the glass and drank it fast. “Did you make this?” he asked once he was finished, licking his lips.

“I did. Why?”

“Do you still have that lemon tree in the backyard?”

“Yes. Actually, half of my fridge is lemons now. You should take some, I can’t use them all myself.”

Laurent came to sit beside him, his back resting against the wall, their shoulders inches away from touching, one knee up, the other resting down.

“I’ve always liked the taste of your lemons, they’re really sweet.”

“That sounded really weird, Damen. You should think better before you speak.”

“Auguste liked them a lot too, didn’t he? I remember, we used to pick them and then use them to make lemon-flavoured ice pops.”

“He did. But then again, he liked a lot of things. He was the lover of the universe. Always enjoying everything, even bad novels and old cookies that no one ever ate.”

He closed his eyes, and felt Damen laughing by his side. It made him smile a little, in spite of their recent fight. Somehow, lemonade always made things better. It helped when Auguste and him had fights over stupid things, it helped when Laurent was in bed with a fever, or when Auguste was stressed about his exams.

If one thought about it, it made sense. Their parents both used to take care of that tree, who had been in that house for generations. He could still hear her mother saying the lemons from that tree were actually magical, and could heal the most dangerous wounds of them all.

The wounds of the heart.

“He…” he inhaled, before continuing. Testing how much more pain his heart could resist for the day. “He was always….so positive. He was nice to everyone, even when they didn’t deserve it. He was so…”

Maybe his heart couldn’t really take more than this. But, he had already jumped into that lane. He had to take it out, another painful and consuming dark thought, that rested in the bottom of his stomach and twisted every time he thought of his brother’s name.

“He was so in love with the idea of living.” He said, finally.

_ It wasn’t fair. _

Watching Auguste slowly losing everything he had worked for, everything he had loved the most.

Watching him break apart when he couldn’t even play the piano anymore. When he had slammed on the keys for the first time in his life, crying in frustration while sitting in his wheelchair. The first moment of weakness Laurent had seen from his brother, and also the only one.

_ “Auguste, Auguste stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Laurent had said, as he tried to take Auguste’s hands away from the piano keys. _

_ “I can’t even play properly anymore, Laurent. What am I if not a pianist? I can’t make my legs function anymore, I can’t play the piano, I can’t compose songs, I can’t go to school, I can’t marry the only girl I’ve ever loved. I can’t stay by your side, even when I promised I would. When I promised mom and dad I would always be there for you. I can’t do anything but sit here and wait for my death.” Auguste had started to cry, then. Ugly, heart-wrenching sobs. “It’s so cruel…I don’t want to die. I want to stay here…I want more time. ” _

“Hey, Laurent, are you okay?”

Damen snapped him out of his thoughts. Ugly, heart-wrenching thoughts. Memories that he’d never forget, no matter how many years passed. Ever since that night when he had received the call, his dreams had been the same; nightmares of his brother desperately trying to hold onto his life.

“I…yes, what were you saying?” he asked and turned his head to look at Damen. His voice a bit weaker than he had intended it to be.

“I made a promise to your brother,” Damen said fast, like he had been trying to take that out of his throat for a lifetime, “I promised him…I would make you fall in love with the idea of living, too.”

“I knew my brother was grotesquely romantic but I never thought he’d get to that extreme.”

“I’m serious. You’re not moving on, you’re just avoiding, hiding under that mask you wear everyday, hoping no one will notice.”

“Oh, and you from all people happen to be one of the lucky ones who notice?”

“I do. I,” he paused, like debating whether or not to speak up his thoughts, “I knew your heart once.”

“You never knew anything, Damianos. If you’re talking about that short time we shared in high school, then you’re wrong. We barely talked, if it wasn’t for my brother, we would have never met.” Laurent said with a bored expression, like explaining the obvious to a very stupid person. Although, he was, in fact, trying to control his heart from beating faster than usual.

_ Traitor. _

“You used to play the violin for me.”

“You used to sneak in the music room and listen to me play.  You’re lucky I never told anyone of your stalker attitude.”

Damen sighed, “Okay, maybe you’re right, maybe we didn’t share more than a few words, though I disagree, but even if that was the case, I enjoyed those moments a lot. I really appreciated them, and your music. Suddenly you don’t want to admit we were friends once, that’s fine, but I still consider you one of mine, and I will help you, Laurent, even if you don’t want me to.”

“After all these years, you’re still entirely annoying. I can’t say I’m surprised, though.”

Damen shook his head and murmured, “And you’re still insufferable.”

“Why are you smiling then?” Laurent asked.

“Because…I had missed it.”

“Me getting on your nerves?”

“It reminds me of the good old days.”

“You sound like an old man.” He said, repressed a laugh that was forming on his throat.

“Well, I am older than you.” Damen said, grinning.

“By three years.”

“And six months.”

“You’re seriously pathetic.”

Damen laughed, like if he had said the best joke of his life. He had always been like that.

_ Disgusting. _

Laurent rolled his eyes and turned his head towards the window, so Damen wouldn’t see his lips curving into the smallest smile one could make. He took a few seconds to compose himself and then looked at Damen again, who was now re-making his hair bun.

Laurent would never admit he found that slightly attractive. It was difficult; being torn between hating Damianos, and liking his physical appearance.

“You should go. Thanks for helping me move the piano.” He said.

“I couldn’t change your mind, could I?”

“No.” He admitted. He was still selling it.

“Can I ask for a  favor though?”

Laurent raised an eyebrow, “I suppose.”

“Can you please teach me to  play  _ Twinkle Twinkle Little Star _ correctly?”

“I don’t remember signing up for lost causes.”

“I’d just like to play once, for Auguste. I know I suck, but I’d like to do it for him.”

They stared at each other while an internal battle held inside Laurent’s head. All the scenarios where this could and will possibly go wrong versus the small percentage of it actually being a pleasant experience.

_ Oh, for Christ’s sake. _

“Tomorrow, seven a.m. It’s the only chance I’m giving you.”

Damen’s face lit up with joy, and Laurent swallowed hard.

 

_ For Auguste. _

 


	5. Dissonance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I'm back!  
> I have to admit I was stuck with this chapter until thursday night when I miraculously wrote most of it. And now I'm back at being stuck, but I'll try to keep updating regularly. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your kudos and comments and your support, it's been amazing.<33 As always thanks to my beautiful betas Ellen and Lee (who actually made the BEST moodboards ever for violinist!Laurent and pianist!Auguste, let me know if you wanna check them!), and also my Pain friends Kelly and Becky. This journey is getting interesting, and I hope you all stay with me to see where it'll take us. 
> 
> P.S. The soundcloud playlist is also updated.

“I met a girl.”

Laurent looked up from his history homework and blinked at his brother, who looked happy, and excited, and breathless, like if he had ran all the way back home.

“A girl?” Laurent said, and put his pencil down.

Auguste bit his lip and nodded. "A girl. Oh _God_ , I think she could be my soulmate."

“But you just met her.”

"Yes, but, since the moment I first saw her, my heart's been singing." Auguste said, and chuckled. "Singing, singing, I can't stop it from singing.”

Laurent couldn’t help but start to laugh. His brother was in the clouds. “Did you even talk to her?”

“Of course I did. Listen, I was walking out of class when I saw her. It hit me hard. I couldn’t keep on walking, I just stood there and then I heard it. And of course, I had to follow her, I had to go talk to her.”

“Heard what?”

“The melody! The… the singing! It was coming from my insides, and I couldn’t think of anything else but her. This has to mean something, Laurent. Maybe…Maybe when we meet our soulmates, we hear music. Maybe that’s how we find them!”

“Auguste, are you serious? Do you even listen to yourself when you speak or do you ban yourself?”

Auguste whined, “Why do you have to be such a mood-killer, brother? Can‘t you be happy for me? I think…I think I’m in love.”

“I don’t believe in love at first sight.”

“Right.” Auguste made a small ‘tsk’ sound with his tongue and rolled his eyes.

Laurent narrowed his eyes, “What was that?”

“Do I have to spell it to you? His name starts with a D and finishes in an N.”

Laurent felt himself flushing. He looked down at his history book and grabbed his pencil again. Auguste was insane if he thought…

“I don’t—“

“Save it. I know you better than you know yourself, little brother. I know the violin usually does the talking for you, but don’t expect the poor guy to get your indirects by playing songs like _Love’s Sorrow or_ Tchaikovsky’s _Waltz of the Flowers.”_

“He was a stalker who enjoyed watching me play.”

“Oh yeah, and you hated that _so_ much.”

Laurent ignored the last comment and returned to his homework, trying not to think of his past crush. A crush that graduated and who was now attending University in another state. A crush that he never reached. A song he never played.

“Hey…Laurent,” Auguste moved from the door and sat on his bed, gently petting a pillow and putting it in place, like a mom. “Now being serious, why don’t you call him? I mean…after the graduation…”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Auguste.” He murmured. They hadn’t talked about what happened that spring, and he surely didn’t wish to talk about it now, months after.

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right? What happened wasn’t your fault, and I’m sure Damen knows that too.”

“Why do you have to get Damen into this whole situation? He had nothing to do with it! You think you know everything, but you don’t even know a quarter of the truth,” Laurent snapped, a strange rage proper of his adolescence filling up his guts before he could even understand what was what got into him.

“I’m only saying it because I know that you care about what he thinks.” Auguste said calmly, looking into his identical pair of blue eyes, searching for the correct strings inside Laurent to calm him down.

“I don’t care about what he thinks. He’s gone, anyway. He was your best friend, not mine.”  Laurent spat.

Auguste sighed and stood up to pet Laurent’s head, but Laurent shook his hand away.

“Go away.”

“Don’t be childish, come on.”

“Don’t be annoying.”

An odd silence stood between them, something that never happened. They usually got along pretty well. Laurent’s rage was slowly calming down on its own again, and he felt slightly guilty about snapping at Auguste.

“I’ll leave you to your homework.” Auguste whispered and walked away towards the door.

“Wait, Auguste,” Laurent called, and his brother turned around. Instead of apologizing, he asked, “What song did you hear?”

Auguste smiled proudly, like he had expected this outcome of events all along. “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.”

“Mozart?” Laurent couldn’t help but chuckle. That song was made for orchestra, and was also very dramatic, explosive, radiant, and beautiful. He thought that the girl who had gotten that song out of his brother’s heart was definitely something else. If he thought about it, maybe if he played the song, he would be able to see her, even without knowing her. That’s a thing about music, you can get to know someone you haven’t even met yet, just by the music impression they leave on you.

“And you?” Auguste asked, “What song did you hear?”

 

***

 

With Damen gone, Laurent closed the main door and pressed his back against it. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, until air finally left his lungs and he swallowed against the hammering beats of his heart. He thought it was going to crawl up his throat and then jump out of his mouth.

He had agreed to teach Damen how to play the piano.

_Why had he done that?_

He repeated  himself that it was just one song, anyway, and then afterwards he could tell Damen to fuck off. He could. He would.

To calm himself down, he decided to clean away the dust off the piano, then clean the rest of the studio. Pack up music books and scores that he would never use again. He wondered if he could sell them, too. They were used, and old. Some pages already had yellow stains on the letters. Maybe he could donate them to the music conservatory. He remembered Auguste spending a fair amount of money buying books about the history of music, biographies of his favorite classical musicians, or their parents getting easy guides to help a beginner Laurent start with the violin and the piano.  It wouldn’t be fair to simply throw them away with the trash.

Being in that room was making him more uneasy than he already was. He couldn’t think, his mind was crowded with memories he wanted to avoid and the annoying insistence of Damen, telling him not to sell the piano. It’s like he couldn’t hear anything else but his voice pleading him to change his mind. It was making him crazy.

His hands and heart ached for his violin. He grew up relieving his exasperation and anxiety through music. Now that he was no longer a musician, he had no idea how to make his thoughts stop. It was too loud. Everything was too loud. Laurent stood in the middle of the studio, staring at the piano of his dead brother, and it felt as if all the music scores came alive and started to sing at the same time. They were loud and demanding and angry. Angry at him for deciding to leave them.

He was going mad.

He really was going mad.

 

_Play._

_Don’t play._

_Play._

_Don’t play._

 

This was all Damen’s fault. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, about music, since he had played that children’s song with him. It was like if some part of him that had been sleeping had awoken again, and he found himself thinking of his violin, who lay in his case somewhere in his closet. He hadn’t played in months, his last time being when Auguste had begged for Laurent to play his favorite song. The last time they played together, before Auguste got worse and slammed the piano keys. The last time they shared music. And then, after Auguste’s rage attack, he had promised it.

_I won’t play again. If Auguste can’t play, then I won’t either._

Even when Auguste had asked him to play the violin for him afterwards, he had refused each time. That truth had two sides. Partially, he was being selfish, but also partially he was doing it because he _knew_ how much it still hurt Auguste not being able to play the piano anymore, less being in a hospital bed. But, that was another truth, between many, many lies. Being out of songs, and promising to be out of songs were two different things. He had thought he could just stop, make a line between him and music. He thought that, with Auguste gone, his will to play was also gone.

But then, Damen showed up.

That _brute_.

He was torn between wanting to play, and not wanting to. Torn between liking Damen, and hating him. Torn between missing his brother, and wishing for him to be alive so he could beat the shit out of him for leaving him an étude.

In other words, he was a mess. Like a bad medley, or an orchestra that was out of sync. Like if something inside him didn’t quite fit. Like Damen, trying to play his brother’s piano with his big hands and Damen’s curls falling off his bun. It was dissonant.

Damen. Damen. Damen.

It was like a high school nightmare happening again.

He grabbed a box, and started to throw the scores and books inside. Kreisler, Beethoven, Chopin, Ravel, Czerny, Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi, Paganini, Shostakovich, Saint-Saëns, Mozart. All of them gone. It wasn’t until the box was full and the shelves empty that he managed to calm down.

Then, he remembered.                                                                   

Mozart.

He opened the box again, and took out the last music score he had shoved in. It was a bit crumpled, but his heart stopped the moment he saw Auguste’s handwriting on the upper right corner. A single word in cursive, written in black ink.

_Victoria._

That was Victoria’s song, Mozart’s _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik_. This was Laurent’s music score, a solo violin arrangement of the original orchestral version. It wasn’t one of his favorite songs to play, so it didn’t surprise him that Auguste had taken it and written the name of his girlfriend on it. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Always the romantic, his brother.

What had been always odd was the fact that Auguste had chosen that song for Victoria, when it was for violin, and they both were pianists. It would have been more normal to choose one of Chopin’s ballades or études.

_“I didn’t choose a song for her. That’s the song I heard when I saw her. It was already chosen. Have you ever thought about the sound of destiny?”_

_“Choosing a song from_ Don Giovanni _isn’t exactly the proper way to get a girlfriend, Auguste.”_

 _“Choosing a song from Kreisler’s_ Old Vienesse Dances _isn’t the proper way to get a boyfriend, Laurent.”_

The sound of destiny. Auguste believed in fate, in soulmates and romance, in the power of “friendship and love.” He was the perfect candidate for a Disney prince. He believed Auguste had been a Prince in his past life, maybe even a King. The Crown Prince of a powerful Kingdom, adored by everyone, the heir, the hero.

But heroes…they weren’t meant to survive.

Not in this life, or another. In all stories, the hero must fall.

He thought of Victoria, the Golden Princess of piano, left alone on her throne. Left alone with her wedding dress and the promise of a lifetime they never shared.

He wondered if, like Auguste, she had a song for him. Maybe she did, although she didn’t seem as disgustingly cheesy as his brother.

_“And you?” Auguste asked, “What song did you hear?”_

Laurent flushed at the memory of it. Because that was another truth. A very hidden truth inside the cave of his heart, where all  of his emotions lived.

It was stupid to think one could hear a song when finding your soulmate. But, a truth always had two sides. Laurent did have a song for Damen, and it wasn’t Kreisler’s _Love’s Sorrow_ , or Tchaikovsky’s _Waltz of the Flowers_ , he didn’t even choose it.

It wasn’t at first sight, much less at second or third. But as time progressed, Laurent was able to listen to it, to Damen’s song. It was strange, to say the least. He wasn’t sure whether to believe in soulmates or not, probably not, but something happens to musicians when they like someone. When they like someone more than just _like_ them. It was as if, the person in question, emanated music. Maybe it was a musicians thing, or maybe there were just people in the world whose souls could actually sing. Maybe those people’s hearts called for musicians, in a way or another.

Damen was also dissonant. A combination of wrong notes arranged perfectly to ruin your ears. The first time, Laurent was not able to hear anything else besides quick minor seconds, and his hatred for Damianos grew. But, eventually, he had came to understood Damen was not just a _fausse note,_ he was also _leggiero_ , _vivace_ , _scherzando_ , _più lento_. And Laurent couldn’t understand why, being a violinist, he could only hear Chopin in his mind.

Like their relationship, Chopin’s _Étude in E minor, Op. 25, No. 5_ was rather unpleasant at the beginning, but then consonance took over, and you were able to listen to the true sounds of the song, hidden behind a cape of fake minor seconds. It was a mix of harmony and pandemonium that somehow managed to create a melody.

Damen, back then and now, was dissonant, but also consonant. Sweet yet harsh, pleasant and unpleasant. Damen, who had been just noise at first, became music. And Laurent wasn’t sure how that happened, or how he had let it happen, but at some point he had felt almost happy about it. Almost happy to hear an étude every time Damen smiled at him.

Thinking of him was like pressing play to an everlasting music box.

The song had stopped the year of Damen’s graduation, after the incident that had dissolved Auguste’s group of friends. The incident he had never been able to talk about, and that costed him his relationship with Damen.

But then, Damen was back. And the song was starting to play again, slowly, like if the music box was cleaning off dust and spider webs off it’s clockwork motor.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about that yet.

Laurent grabbed the box and put it in the living room, along with the other boxes of trash that might or might not include some of Auguste’s things he did not know where to put or if he should keep at all. He could worry about that later, perhaps after he had sold the piano.

Now, he needed a camera.

He had found a website to sell the piano, but he needed to take some pictures. Of course, the piano wasn’t an Alma Tadema, but his brother’s ebony Steinway could easily grant him around forty thousand dollars.

Forty thousand dollars for his brother’s heart.

The only professional camera was Auguste’s, and it was inside his room. His stomach burnt just at the thought of opening that door.

 _Do you have a professional camera I can use?_ he texted Jord, knowing he did have one, since he was a photographer.

_You go weeks without replying to my texts or calls and this is what you say? For God’s sake, Laurent._

_Jord. Yes or No?_

He waited for a few minutes, before the response finally came.

_Yes. Meet me @ Le Notre in 20 minutes._

Le Notre was the best bakery in town, and also Laurent’s favorite. It was the only one that had a long variety of desserts, including profiteroles and cannelés. Jord knew that if he wanted to have a talk with Laurent, this was a good place to do it.

By the time Laurent arrived to the bakery, Jord was already sitting on a table by the window. He didn’t smile, as he often did, when he saw him, but instead looked angrier.

“Were you even going to let me know you were still alive?” Jord asked sarcastically.

“Yes.” Laurent said and sat down in front of him, “I…” he debated for a moment, but then decided to be direct, like always. “I’m selling Auguste’s piano.”

Jord’s expression changed, from anger to confusion and then worry and sadness.

“Wha—Laurent, you can’t, I…Auguste…”

“I already made up my mind. I need to take a few photos of it for the web page, and I couldn’t find my camera.”

“Are you…sure? I mean…maybe he wanted you to have it. Not give it away to some stranger.”

“You’re acting just like Damen.”

“So Damen knows about it?” Jord raised an eyebrow. “And what did he say?”

“What do you think?”

There was silence between them, and Jord stared at his cup of coffee while Laurent watched him. The whole place smelled of cinnamon and warm bread, mixed with the bitterness of coffee. It was crowded, as always, but the chaos of it all didn’t softened the harsh silence that reigned on their table.

Jord finally sighed, clearly giving up to an idea he didn’t like at all. “I’ll take the photos, if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you.” Laurent said softly.

“Have you been eating?”

Laurent nodded, “I’m not letting myself fall into depression, Jord.”

“And not playing the violin isn’t the same thing?”

“Why does everyone suddenly care about me playing the damn violin?”

“Maybe because you’re a musician.”

“Not anymore.”

More silence followed. Just as he couldn’t stand the loud notes of music, he couldn’t stand the silence. It was an odd thing, for silence had never bothered him before. Again, the dissonant feeling, the awkward in-between. He was off-balance. All of him was off-balance. But if he played the violin, would that make it better?

_No. Auguste’s gone. And he’s not going back._

But if Laurent had played him a song, would it have been the same? Why was that ever since his brother had fallen sick, most of his decisions ended up in a Shakespeare’s dilemma? To play or not to play? To sell the piano or not to sell it?

To have music without Auguste, or not to have anything at all?

“I’ll go to your place tomorrow, and I’ll help you post the photos on the web page. Your house has nice natural light we could use, is morning okay for you?”

Laurent nodded and then stopped. Damen was going in the morning. He wasn’t sure Damen and Jord could be together and not side against him and his decision. But it was a risk he needed to take if he wanted Jord to take the photos.

It was that, or entering Auguste’s room.

“Morning is fine.”

 

Laurent returned home and let himself fall onto the bed. It was cold, and the house felt empty. Too big for just one person. There were no other sounds except for his own.

He slid underneath the covers  and grabbed onto his old, forgotten iPod. Plugging in his earbuds, he looked for a song he knew was the only thing that could make him feel better. He clicked on it, and rested his head on the pillow, hoping that Debussy would take him somewhere else. Somewhere pleasant.

And he slept.


	6. Cacophony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! This chapter turned out longer than I thought it'd be. I don't have much to say, I just want to thank you all again for your support<3 and my betas Ellen and Lee for doing an amazing job. 
> 
> P.S. I recommend you to listen to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pPTe1xMB9Uk) song while reading the last part of the chapter, because it helps you understand the emotions better.  
> P.S.2 I'm sorry in advance for what you're about to read. Feel free to come yell at me on twitter and tumblr.

“Can you help me?”

Laurent nodded, and helped his brother off the wheelchair onto the piano bench. It surprised him how light his brother was when he was muscular and strong and taller. Or, he used to be.

Auguste sat on the bench with a happy sigh and adjusted his foot on the pedal.

“What do you want to play?” Laurent asked, and took his violin out of its case. Auguste had woken him up in the middle of the night because he wanted – _needed_ \- to play a song. It was late, but it was a Saturday, so Laurent didn’t protest. He wouldn’t have protested anyway. Not to Auguste.

“Clair de Lune,” Auguste said, smiling. “Do you know the chords for violin?”

“I learnt them by ear. I think I can do without the score.” Laurent said, straightening his back and leaning the violin on his shoulder. “You lead, I’ll follow.”

“Alright.” Auguste said, straightening his back as well. Laurent watched him close his eyes as he moved his fingers over the keys, positioning his hands on the right chords to start.

For a few seconds, the only sounds in the living room were those of their breathing. The room was dark, the only light was that of the moon, coming in from the windows that lead to the backyard.

Auguste started, the first notes of Debussy clear and slow. Laurent quickly followed himself, his violin singing with precision and elegance _. Pianissimo_ . _Très expressif_. They were playing by ear, by memory. Both sounds were complimenting each other, but without one being accompanist of the other. Kind of like they were as brothers, although Laurent depended a bit more on Auguste than he wanted to admit. Their personalities were similar yet different, like their instruments, like their talent. Laurent allowed himself to close his eyes, the soothing sound easing the constantly building stress on his shoulders and neck.

 _Clair de Lune_ reminded Laurent of the times he and Auguste would stargaze when they were much younger, Auguste talking about constellations until Laurent fell asleep. It reminded him of quiet nights where they would sit on the living room and read. Christmas, where they’d sit on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate, challenging each other to stay awake for Santa. Their parents laughing and carrying them to their bedrooms afterwards. It reminded him of himself, crying in the middle of the night after a bad nightmare, running to Auguste’s bedroom, sliding quietly on his bed and taking his hand.

It was a song made for broken hearts. For the lost souls to seek comfort, and a path to follow. And Laurent thought that it was perhaps the first time he understood Paul Verlaine’s poem.

  _“They do not seem to believe in their happiness_

_And their song mingles with the moonlight. “_

 It was their song.

Auguste loved it the most, even if it was very cliché. It was the song Auguste hummed to his little brother when he was sick in bed with a high fever. It was the song that made Laurent think of their most beautiful, precious moments together. Days and nights full of joy, with no worries or nightmares. Just the two of them and the music.

The third and most famous movement of _Suite Bergamasque_ was coming to an end, and Laurent felt how the air left his lungs as he thought that, perhaps, their most beautiful and precious moments together as brothers were also coming to an end. Perhaps Auguste’s life was also ending. It was like a kick in the teeth; fast, too fast to  even realize what is truly happening, and painful, extremely painful.

As the song finished, Laurent opened his eyes and played the last chord. Auguste followed, the last note of the piano filling the room like a gentle whisper. For the minutes that followed, none of them spoke. Laurent held his breath as he heard the low, quiet whimpers of his older brother. He lowered his bow, and stepped towards him.

“That was beautiful. That was _so_ beautiful.” Auguste said as Laurent approached. He was crying, his eyes looked like two dark wells as tears slipped down his cheeks, in spite of the smile he was showing. In the pale moonlight, Auguste looked like the picture of a ghost. He looked almost unreal, like what’s left in our minds of a faraway dream. Something we think we remember but we don’t, not truly. Auguste was and was not Auguste in the same way that a withering rose was still a rose. Living, but decaying. Living, but not fully, not really.

_Dying._

_Losing._

_Parting._

Laurent hugged his brother tightly, comfortingly. Like if he could stop Auguste from leaving if he held him tightly enough. Like if he could reverse it, somehow, whatever it was that was killing him from the inside.

“Thank you for playing with me.” Auguste whispered, like a kid who’s telling a secret into one’s ear. It felt as though he was thanking Laurent for a lifetime of harmonies, and not just one night of Debussy.

“It won’t be the last time,” Laurent said, “Auguste, we’ll play again. When you get better, we’ll play everyday.”

Auguste pulled away from his embrace and looked at his little brother. Their blue eyes connected instantly, sharing hidden truths and confidences, fears and desperation. Auguste smiled, his chapped lips curving into a smile. Dimples still there, despite the illness. Joy, hope, still there, despite it all. He messed up Laurent’s hair with his hand and cleaned away his own tears.

“I’d like that.”

 

***

The sound of silence was different from the sound of solitude. Silence was the absence of sound, and the sound of silence was the clarity, the transparence of nothing. _Too quiet_. The sound of solitude, though, was the absence of silence. The absence of quietness. It was perhaps the loudest kind of silence there could be, becoming a beautiful oxymoron. A chaotic harmony. Cacophony. The sound of solitude was everything that there wasn’t. It was the absent sound of cups being washed, clanking against the plates in the sink. It was the sound of Auguste’s morning grumpiness missing in the kitchen. It was the sound of the shower running in the early mornings, the calling of someone from another room.  It was the sound of an abnormality, the sound of things disappearing. And it filled your ears, and your mind, and your heart, until suddenly you were not able to hear anything else but that infinite, terrible, excruciating silence.

Laurent de Vere found himself sitting on a chair in the kitchen table, drinking tea and pulling down the sleeves of his indigo cardigan. Desperately hoping those would help his body stop trembling. He had awoken in a mess of sheets and cold sweat on the back of his neck. He felt tired, in spite of having slept some good eight hours, and he was cold. He was trembling, his body being a victim of strange spasms that didn’t seem to stop. As he came back from the realm of dreams, the first thing he listened was music. Debussy still playing from his earbuds, and his iPod firmly clutched in his fist. His fingers were numb and started to ache when he moved them, finally.

 _Not good for a violinist,_ he thought involuntarily. There had certainly been an epoch where he would have cursed himself for his actions, recklessly compromising the health of his violinist hands. Hands that needed to be taken care of, hands that only should hurt from practising non-stop.

But now, he didn’t have anything to lose.

He drank his tea slowly, taking intervals between sipping and biting on the croissant he had bought the day before at the bakery, after Jord had scowled at him like an angry mother.

He probably was on his way there, and so was Damen.

Laurent didn’t even want to think about it. He was avoiding it, trying to make his brain drift apart to any other subject, but failing in the process.

The croissant was soft, salty and buttery. Though they usually tasted their best when fresh out of the oven, after a day they still held their immaculate flavour.

At least he had croissants. And lemons.

The warmth of the tea seemed to help ease the shaking of his body, and he started to feel better. His heart was beating steady inside of his chest, his breathing composed, And that’s when he remembered he had dreamed of Auguste.

It was rather a memory, another of many. He kept seeing them in dreams and out of them. Flashbacks hitting him like a slap on the cheek.

Like a kick in the teeth.

He didn’t know why it was happening or how to stop the painful memories from coming back to his present thoughts, it was wearing him off.

He needed a distraction, a pleasant interruption.

Something, anything.

And there was a knock on the door. He came back from the depth of his mind and stood up, sipping the last drops of his tea before leaving the mug in the sink and moving to open the door.

To his surprise, Jord wasn’t alone. There was also Damen, of course, and also someone else he didn’t remember inviting home. If he had invited them at all.

He raised an eyebrow at the three of them, “Should I also expect Jokaste to show up?”

“She’s too busy to come. The lucky bitch.” said Nikandros, clearly annoyed at Laurent’s presence.

“Why are you here?”

“I brought him along to help me with the equipment. I didn’t know Damen was coming too.” Jord said, looking back at Damen who shrugged in response.

“I didn’t know Jord and Nik were coming. This feels like a gang reunion.” Damen grinned.

It was going to be a long morning.

Laurent moved to one side to let them in. Jord was carrying his camera bag and a tripod, while Nikandros carried in the lights. Damen quicky followed, closing the door after him.

“Photos?” Damen asked Laurent, who gestured towards the studio where the piano now was.

“I need pictures of the piano for the web page.”

“Oh…”

Laurent could see in Damen’s expression that he was not only still against his decision, but he was also hurt. Disappointed. He didn’t know why that caused his stomach to twist in knots.

“It shouldn’t take long.” Laurent said, and followed Jord into the studio, leaving Damen standing alone in the hall.

_Don’t feel guilty._

Nikandros was currently arranging the lights to Jord’s orders, moving around the room in silence, opening the windows, while Jord prepared the camera.

“How many photos do you need?” Jord asked, focusing on different angles.

“Take every angle, and zoom on the keyboard.” Laurent said and Jord nodded.

“Lights are ready.” Nikandros said and gave Jord a thumbs up.

“Alright. You two get out of here.”

While Jord took the photos, Nikandros and Laurent awkwardly walked together to the kitchen, where Damen stood making coffee.

“I hope it doesn’t bother you. I figured some coffee would be good.” Damen said, pouring some into a mug.

Nikandros groaned loudly, “This is why I love you. Is there some food too? I’m starving. Jord just pushed me out of bed and dragged me here.”

Damen quickly looked at Laurent, but before he could speak, Laurent walked over to the sink and started to wash his empty mug. “Help yourselves.”

Nikandros shrugged, and opened the bag of croissants, taking two and then handing it to Damen. The kitchen was quiet, but now the sound of solitude was gone. It was replaced by the sounds of mugs being filled, plates being placed on the table, Nikandros biting loudly into his croissant. It was comforting, in a strange way.

He felt the presence of Damen by his side, although he didn’t look up at him and instead kept washing the tea spoons. “Did you have breakfast?” Damen asked as he grabbed the butter on the counter.

“Yes.” Laurent sighed.  

“You look really tired,” Damen pointed out.

“I am tired.” Laurent admitted, drying his hands with the dish towel.

Damen frowned, and looked at him closely. Like examining him. “What? Laurent asked.

“You’re very pale. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Okay?

He wanted to laugh. Okay. Of course he was okay. Why wouldn’t he be okay? Auguste was dead and now Jord, Nikandros and _Damen_ were in his house   --a house, which, by the way, was making him more and more crazy with every night he spent there-- pushing on the edges of his control.

He felt like he was drowning in a sea of dark water, with no light and no air and no hand to pull him out.

But, of course, he was okay.

“My brother is buried three meters underground, decomposing. My only family in the world is being eaten by worms. Is that a definition of ‘okay’?”

“No. But if you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll also end up collapsing. Do you think that’s what Auguste wants?”

Laurent sent him a death glare, and said in a calm, collected voice, “Do not speak of my brother, Damianos.”

“Well, someone has to.”  Damen snapped back, “Why do you do this? Why do you insist so much in…throwing away what’s left of him? I thought we were supposed to remember our loved ones, to preserve the memories. Not erase them and forget they even existed.”

“Why don’t we talk about Kastor, then?”

Both Damen and Nikandros froze. Nikandros, however, looked like he was ready to intervene. But Damen stopped him with a reassuring glance his way.

“Don’t test me, Damen. We both know who’s going to lose.”

_Don’t feel guilty._

Laurent left the kitchen, but even so he still caught Nikandros’ voice as he walked down the hall. The word “insufferable” remarked with contempt.

_Auguste, your friends hate me._

_I bet sometimes they wish I was the one dead._

“Laurent.”

He looked up to see Jord standing in front of him with the camera. “I got the pictures. Where’s your laptop?”

After making sure the photos were okay, Jord posted them on the website along with the model specifications. _Model S Baby Grand piano from Steinway & Sons (at only 5'1" long) ebony with a satin finish. Around 25 years old, in MINT condition. Piano bench included. _

“Mint condition?” Jord asked as he typed in the words.

“In piano language, this Steinway could live up another 125 years, if it’s well taken care of. Considering Auguste treated it better than a newborn, it’s practically new.”

Jord sighed, “Are you sure you want to do this, Laurent?”

“I am.” And he didn’t wait. He pressed ENTER himself, and the post was created.

Auguste’s heart was now for sale.

_Don’t feel guilty._

“It’s done.”

“Thanks for the help.” Laurent murmured and closed his laptop. He felt a knot in his throat that wasn’t there before. He felt the raising of an anxiety that wasn’t there before. And the odd, strange shakings from the morning returning to his body.  

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

_Liar._

_Liar_

_Liar._

“Talk to me. Or, if you don’t want to talk to me, then to someone else. But…talk to someone, Laurent. It’s not good…swallowing up everything that you’re going through. I know from experience.”

Their eyes met, and Laurent betrayed himself by looking away. He could still hear the pain in Jord’s voice, even after the years had passed. He could still distingue the vague notes of Aimeric’s melody in Jord. A melody that will probably never fade away.

The notes from the dearly beloved that leave us, they stay in you forever. And no matter how many years pass, how many other loved ones you have, their melody lingers, like an invisible chain that ties you to them. It’s a curse, or a gift, or both at the same time.

It felt as though Laurent was collecting ghosts that didn’t seem to stop chasing him.

As Nikandros and Jord left, Laurent was alone with Damen. Yet again.

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier.” Damen whispered. He was tugging on the sleeve of his flannel, like a kid that doesn’t know what to do.

“I’m sorry I brought Kastor up.” He knew how much it hurt Damen still.

“All we ever do is hurt each other.”

“That’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said.”

“I thought I was the most honest man you know?”

“You are.” Laurent sighed, “It’s irritating.”

“You’re irritating.” Damen said.

“Is that all?”

“Insufferable.”

“Continue.”

“Unpleasant.”

“I didn’t know you had that word in your vocabulary. Bravo.”

“Beautiful.” Damen took a step towards him, and Laurent took one back. Like a dance.

“That’s an antonym, Damen. We were talking about synonyms.”

“Shy.”

“And that’s an unrealistic statement.”

“Broken.”

“That’s…more realistic.” Laurent whispered, and Damen closed the space between them.

They were very close, Laurent looking up into his warm eyes. He had the urge of stepping back again, but he would trip over the boxes filled with Auguste’s stuff to throw away.

“Don’t do it anymore.”

“What?”

“Break your heart over and over again. Stop it. Stop breaking your own heart, Laurent.”

“I didn’t do this to myself, Damen.”

“I know. But with your actions, you’re just making it hard on yourself. Grief is complicated and awful, but one thing is someone stabbing you and other thing is stabbing yourself.”

“So you think me selling Auguste’s piano was self-destructive.”

“Yes.”

“Being with you is also self-destructive and I don’t see you complaining about my well-being.”

“I’m serious, Laurent.”

“So am I.”

Damen sighed and stepped away from him, rubbing his face with one hand. “I guess I shouldn’t have shoved my way into your life just like that. I’m sorry. I…can go home, if you want. I won’t bother you anymore.”

“No. I…I’ll teach you to play. I made you a promise.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You said…you wanted to do it for Auguste. And…I can’t deny my brother that.”

“That’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Shut up.”

Damen grinned, and Laurent turned around before he could see his half-smile.

“Come with me.”

They entered the studio and Laurent motioned for Damen to sit on the piano bench.

“Keep your back straight. Posture is everything.” He sat next to him, their thighs pressed next to each other. Damen was too big for this piano bench.

“Now what, teacher?”

“Don’t call me that.” Laurent glared and took Damen’s hand, leaving it softly on the piano keys.

“We’ll start with the first chord. I think even a complete brute like you can play _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_ somewhat decently.”

“I hope so.”

As Damen played, or tried to, it became more evident that he surely was skilled in a lot of things, but not music. His fingers were too big, which was an obstacle to play on the black keys. He was clumsy, and couldn’t tell the difference between the C chord and the G chord. It was frustrating.

“Scriabin must be rolling on his grave at this moment.” Laurent sighed.

“Scriabin?” Damen asked, as he stuck his tongue out, as he often did when he was really concentrating in some task, while he positioned his fingers to play the G chord correctly.

“Alexander Scriabin, it was one of Auguste’s favorite pianists. Along with Vladimir Horowitz. Both of them must hate you.”

“Well, at least they’re only two from many.” Damen smiled.

“Vladimir Horowitz is considered the best pianist of the twentieth century.” said Laurent, matter-of-factly.

Damen’s smile faded as he cursed, “Shit.”

Laurent couldn’t help but smile at the reaction, almost to the point of laughing very softly.

“Their songs are usually technically challenging. Only very good, experienced pianists can perform them decently. Horowitz played Scriabin like if he was the same man reincarnated. He had…the passion, the sentiment, the technique of the original. It was almost as if the sound was exactly the same. Auguste could go on and on about it.”

“I take it Auguste also played them often?” Damen asked, trying to play the first three chords of the song and failing miserably at the end.

“Yes.” Laurent said softly, glancing at the picture of Vladimir Horowitz Auguste had hung on the wall opposite to the window. “ _Étude in D-sharp minor, Op. 8, No. 12._ That one was his favorite.”

His right hand ached over the piano keys, and he found himself moving it towards the first chord of the étude.

_No._

He wanted to play. Although he wasn’t as good as Auguste. He didn’t have his technique, for he never really focused on the piano. His abandoned violin must hate him by now, being betrayed by another instrument. He felt as though playing the piano was easy, for the piano couldn’t tell his truths. But it could tell Auguste’s. And his agonies.

It was like releasing pandora’s box. As Laurent played, he saw his brother again. His posture, his hands, the way he often closed his eyes while performing. The way he gave the piano his all. His soul, his heart, his memories, his demons. It was so personal that Laurent felt like an intruder, and felt the death of his brother stronger than before. Auguste loved that song. He loved it as much as he loved _Clair de Lune,_ as much as he loved Victoria and the Model S Baby Grand Piano from Steinway & Sons that Laurent was selling.

And he felt it on the piano, the fear of abandonment. Because instruments are connected to us, he was able to feel it. The piano screamed in agony, for an owner that was never to come back. It screamed to the point of Laurent forgetting which pain was his and which was Auguste’s, and where they connected. It screamed, and Laurent felt as if the piano keys were burning his hands, leaving more invisible scars. It hurt, but he couldn’t stop.

_It hurts._

_It hurts._

_It hurts._

He thought of Auguste, and how much it hurt him to play the piano during the final stages of his illness. How badly he wanted to play but he couldn’t. And he wondered whether the pain of not being able was bigger and more devastating than the feeling of hurting itself.

This was a punishment. For playing, for selling the piano, for his selfishness. Feeling was the punishment his brother had left for him. Feeling everything that he had never allowed himself to feel, all at the same time. It was raw and he thought that his interpretation had changed, being twisted by the ghosts chasing him. He wanted to play Scribain, but instead he was playing a different song. A darkened version of the same notes, the same score. A grief-induced version of the dramatic étude.

As he pressed the last notes, he opened his eyes and inhaled, trying to catch his breath. He was trembling, and he lifted up his hands to check whether there was blood on them or not. They felt as if they had gripped a burning stone, but looked as normal as always. He turned his head and looked at Damen, who was staring at him with glossy eyes. Tears running down like unstoppable waterfalls.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” Damen whispered.

Damen had felt it too. He had listened to him, like before.

_“Talk to me. Or, if you don’t want to talk to me, then to someone else.”_

Laurent wasn’t good at opening up about his feelings, but somehow, when he played, Damen understood everything that was behind the notes. Somehow, Damen, who lacked of musical talent, understood him. He listened to him, and felt the way he felt through his music. Piano, or violin, or any instrument.

“Damen—“Laurent said, his voice coming out weaker than he wanted. It was almost like he was choking for air. He couldn’t focus on Damen’s face anymore, and he was dizzy.

He felt like he was drowning in a sea of dark water, with no light and no air and no hand to pull him out.

But then, there was a sound.

Damen’s voice, calling his name. His world went completely black. And then, like an invariable result, Laurent collapsed.  



	7. Rem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay well, this is a weird chapter.  
> It's been one of my favorite ones to write, but I have to admit it can be a bit odd. I hope you enjoy it, anyway.  
> As always, let's thank Ellen and Lee for beta'ing and listening to me and giving me more ideas to make this story even better. Also special thanks to Alesia for being so loyal and motivating me everyday.  
> This story has now 90 kudos and I couldn't believe it when I saw it. I swear I almost teared up. Thank you so, so much<3
> 
> P.S. The meaning of the title. Rem: rapid eye movement sleep, characterized by random movement of the eyes, low muscle tone throughout the body, and the propensity of the sleeper to dream vividly.  
> P.S.2 The quotes I used while in the first part of the chapter are from "Vesti la giubba", an aria from the opera "Pagliacci" (which is also my favorite)

Laurent found himself sinking, sinking, sinking…

The water was dark, dirty and dense. His movements were slow, no matter how he tried, he couldn’t go up to the surface. So, soon he stopped trying. When he was a child, he once developed a fear for spiders. It was a problem that he managed to solve by himself, and at seven years old that was a great prowess. He remembered how he had gotten rid of the nightmares and general fear of spiders, and he thought that maybe, it could also help him _here_ . Whatever here was. As a child, he had thought, _Let them take you_ , and he very well remembered how he had dreamt of being absorbed—not eaten, but absorbed—by a giant spider. He had not screamed or been afraid, he had just _let it take him._ And after that, the nightmares disappeared. Perhaps with the dark water, it would work the same thing.

_Let it take you._

_Do not resist._

Perhaps the water wanted to take him somewhere safe. Or at least somewhere he didn’t have to feel anything. His limbs were numb, and it was a rather relaxing feeling. He didn’t have to think, or feel, or exist at all. Wherever he was, he knew he was safe, he knew he didn’t have to fear or fight or cry. He was willing to let himself be swallowed by the infinite sea of dark water that was his own mind, his own heart, if it meant forgetting.

He wanted to cease to exist.

That hideous thought invaded his mind more often than he wished for. It made him feel guilty, because his brother had wanted to live, but couldn’t. And Laurent, well, he didn’t wish for death, but he didn’t wish for life either. There was simply nothing good left in his present life that would make him want to stay in the real world, instead of this dark realm he was sinking into. He felt guilty, but at the same time, he did not.

He thought of Damen, but quickly pushed those thoughts away, for Damen wasn’t his to claim. Damen would not be in his life for much longer. Kind, honest Damen. He wanted to tell him, at least once. He wanted him to know. But he knew, deep inside, that it was a selfish truth he didn’t have any right to think about. Damen wasn’t his, and will never be, for Laurent didn’t deserve not even a piece of him. What could he offer to him, that wasn’t antipathy and despair?

He would leave. Damen would leave him, too.

Because everyone always leaves. And Laurent always stayed, to watch them walk away.

So he would let Damen go away too, for his sake. Because he didn’t want to hurt him. What he had always wished from Damen was everything he had already given him, but that Laurent couldn’t give back, even if he wanted to. Even if he tried. Perhaps because he didn’t have it, perhaps because he was defective.

He tried to convince himself that was the best he could do. That it was, what he wanted to happen. He ignored the throbbing pain on his chest and the tears that slipped away, mixing with the salty, black water that pushed him down with more intensity.

Maybe he didn’t want Damen.

Maybe he didn’t want air, or light, or a hand to pull him out.

Maybe he didn’t want to go back.

In that place, there were no voices, or sounds, or people. No pianos, or violins, or music scores. No brothers, or lovers, or withering flowers. Just cold, coarse darkness, the reflection of himself. Of everything he was on the inside. The cumulation of every tear he had not allowed himself to shed, every scattered piece of his lost innocence, every sin and every stain.

_Let it take you._

_Do not resist._

He opened his mouth, letting water in. As he reached the bottom of the sea, he closed his eyes, and let himself drown.

And then, the scenery changed.

He found himself in a white room, with a white bed, a white chair, a window that was opened, letting in the breeze. He recognized it immediately. It was Auguste’s hospital bedroom.

But it wasn’t.

For a minute, he felt confused. It was the replica of something he had seen in the real world, but he wasn’t quite sure it was _real_. Or if that was the real world at all. The feeling of deja vu was too strong to ignore it.

“Hello, little brother.”

He froze on his feet, afraid, for a minute, of what he’d see if he turned around. Maybe he wouldn’t see anything. But it…it was Auguste’s voice. So, he turned around, in a second, with his eyes closed.

“Open your eyes.” The voice whispered on his ear, and he opened them only to confirm Auguste was standing right in front of him.

_This is a dream._

“Auguste.” He whispered. It was more like he breathed out the word. Like if someone had punched him in the stomach and all he could say was his brother’s name.

His older brother smiled. He wasn’t the sick, discouraged brother he had seen during the final stages of his illness, the one who smashed on the piano keys over and over until his hands bruised. The one who sat next to the window and watched the world moving on without him. The brother who longed to see more than what he was given, to do more than what he was able to. The brother who prayed for another minute, another second.

_“I want more time.”_

No, it wasn’t that Auguste. The one he was facing was the brother he always knew, and the one he grew up with. He seemed more to the real Auguste, but he realized then he wasn’t sure what was real and what was not, anymore. Because Auguste was dead, even when he hadn’t seem like his Auguste. And this person, who seemed more like that boy –man—he knew, was not real. It was so contradictory Laurent wanted to laugh.

Laugh at the pain, like you laugh at the irony.

_"Laugh at the grief that poisons your heart!"_

He felt his shoulders start to shake, hysteria taking over him like he was possessed.

_"Act! While in delirium,_

_I no longer know what I say,_

_or what I do!_

_And yet it's necessary... make an effort!"_

“You’re dead,” he said, finally, “This is not real. _You_ are not real.”  He couldn’t stop laughing, because, wasn’t that funny?

Wasn’t it a big comedy? Wasn’t it the final aria of an opera?

Wasn’t it all, a great act, a great tragedy where he was the main character? And who wrote the script?

Who did _this_ to him?

“Why do you think being dead makes me less real? If I’m dead it’s because I lived once. I existed.”

“Yes, you existed, and now…now, you don’t.”

Laurent stopped laughing, and stared at his brother—fake brother?—still in front of him. His golden hair was long, as he wore it when he was in the conservatory.  He looked…alive. With subtle pink on his cheeks and lips, and light in his blue eyes. The light Laurent often called for while in the dark.

Auguste was still smiling when he spoke up again, calmly, his voice steady, not weak. “I am what I am, and what I am I will always be. But if one day I’m not what I am, and what I am becomes someone else, will our lives still be connected? If, one day, I come back to you, will you know it’s me, or will I lose that too? Is my soul what makes me, or I am what makes my soul?”

“Stop.”

“Tell me, Laurent, if I am music, and I left a piece of me inside all of you before I was gone, doesn’t it mean I’m still alive, somehow?”

“Stop it.” He couldn’t listen. He didn’t want to. It was painful.

He remembered the taste of the salty, dark water.

“Think about it. I’m not gone, not entirely. While you have a piece of me within you, while you play the chords I left for you, I’m still there.”

“You’re not. You’re not. You’ll never be. You’re dead. Gone. You left me.” His voice broke, and he realized he was crying. He was crying, like he had never before.

Because he was breaking.

His mind was breaking. The only place where he could feel safe, was slowly coming apart. Like a mirror, falling and smashing in millions of pieces. Like crystal, becoming dust.

“You left me, Auguste, you left me.”

He was so selfish. He knew, of course he knew, Auguste didn’t want to leave him. But he did. He was completely alone in the world. And who could he blame for it? Auguste? Himself? Life?

Everything?

Anything?

“I never left you.” Auguste whispered. He pulled Laurent into a hug, and it felt so real Laurent couldn’t help but let himself be held by his older brother. Like a child with his protector. A feeling of safety he wasn’t sure he would ever feel again. “You don’t want to understand, and that pains me, Laurent. You have to understand. You have to say goodbye. I came here because I needed you to say it, because it’s important.”

“No.”

He had avoided it. Always.

Goodbye.

He couldn’t say the word, it tangled his tongue and he swallowed the knot. When Auguste died, he wasn’t there, because he didn’t want to say goodbye.

“Please. You must.” Auguste grabbed his face in his hands, and he felt like a little kid again, admiring the authority of his older brother. “You have to let go. You have to let me go, if you don’t, this will never stop.”

“This?” he managed to say between ugly sobs and hiccups.

“Your anguish.”

“It will never stop. I will never forget you.”

“It’s not about forgetting, or forgiving. It’s about living. I don’t want to keep breaking your heart. The burdens we carry, they’re growing pains. The only way to live, is letting them go. Let me go. I promise you, I won’t be mad. I am fine, I am happy. Don’t let me become your burden, Laurent.”

_No._

_I refuse._

_I refuse._

If he said goodbye to Auguste, would he lose the last bit of him there was left? If he said it, would it disappear forever? Like an overexposed photo?

What would there be, then, if that happened? An empty space, a blank square?

“I did it, you know? I became music.” Auguste said, smiling at him and kissing his head. He messed up his golden locks and didn’t seem troubled when tears started to show up in the corners of his eyes. “I became your music, Laurent, but you don’t play anymore. Why is that?”

And then, like the flash of a camera, the world, the realm of his dreams, turned white and vanished, leaving only a dark canvas and the taste of salty water on his lips. He tried to scream, to hold onto his brother, fake or not, but it was useless. Something pulled at him, and threw him into the water. Like dropping a mirror, letting it break in millions of pieces.

He was sinking, sinking, sinking…

Breaking, breaking, breaking…

 

***

He woke up.

He could feel his limbs again, and his head felt heavy. His mouth no longer tasted like salt, but blood from his own chapped lips. As he grew aware of the reality again, he could hear a voice in the distance.

Damen’s voice.

It was obvious now that he had been unconscious, and that he had not sunk to the bottom of the ocean like he felt he was. He was in his room, on his bed, and he felt tired and a bit nauseated, but not like he had been drowning out in the sea.

Laurent sat up carefully, his mind spinning slightly as he did. He rubbed his eyes, pressing them softly in their sockets.

“No, he hasn’t woken up yet. I—Yeah, not long. I’ll stay…yes. Yes. I’ll call you if anything happens. Alright. Bye.”

Damen was talking on the phone.

Laurent waited, until the steps outside on the hall entered his bedroom. Damen stopped and stared. He looked tired, worried, sad. But as their eyes met, his whole expression changed.

“Laurent.” Damen stepped in quickly, almost running, and came to sit next to him on the bed. “Thanks God. How are you feeling? Do you remember what happened?”

“I—“Laurent frowned, and thought about it for a moment.

What had happened?

He only remembered the weird dream he had had. Or…at least part of it.

What was the dream about?

“Did…I faint?”

Damen nodded and bit his lip as he talked, “You were playing the piano and when you finished…you just…collapsed. I tried to catch you in time, but I couldn’t. When I realized, you were already on the floor. I was really worried, I called Jord and a doctor…”

“A doctor?” Laurent frowned, “Is he coming here?”

“He already did. You were unconscious for a good few hours.”

Hours.

It seemed surreal, the fact that he had fainted in the music room with Damen. Everything felt so surreal, that for a moment he wondered if he was in another dream.

“I don’t…feel good.” He whispered and felt his whole body trembling.

“You need some sugar. Apparently you have anemia, and your sugar is really low. You’ve been skipping meals, haven’t you?” Damen said, but there was no hint of discontent behind his voice. Only worry. He pulled out a chocolate bar and opened it, then handed a piece to Laurent. “Eat that, it’ll help you feel better.”

He took the chocolate to his lips and fought against the nausea that overcame him. He forced it into his mouth and swallowed it as fast as he could. Damen watched him, and when it was done, he lay back down against his pillows. He felt exhausted.

Nowadays, he always felt exhausted.

“I’m not depressed.” He said, staring at Damen.

“I never said you were.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face. Yours, and Jord’s, and everyone’s.”

Damen sighed, “We’re only worried about you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Stop pushing me away. It’s not going to work.”

“It isn’t? I think I did it pretty well in high school. What has changed?”

“I—everything. This isn’t high school. You can’t just…kick me on the back and forget about my existence. Again.”

Laurent closed his eyes and inhaled before replying. He didn’t want to talk about high school, or Damen, or their relationship. He wanted to be alone, and stare at the wall. Anything but think.

“You graduated, I stayed. It was rather obvious that would happen. And I didn’t forget about your existence. Auguste was happy to remind me you were alive.”

“You were hiding. You were avoiding me, and everyone. Because of what happened.”

“I didn’t avoid anyone. How was I supposed to react? Everyone was all over me and I needed—I wanted…to be left alone.”

“But I waited for you. I waited all summer, until I had to leave. You never showed up. Why? I just want to know. I’ve always wanted to know. ”

There was a pause where Laurent debated whether to tell the truth, and take an uncertain path, or lie again. Because lying was so easy, so helpful. But Damen…he deserved what was real, and not what he invented. He deserved to know.

And he saw it again, the flash of the camera, the white room.

What was real? What was not?

“Because I don’t say goodbye.” He said, pushing the words out, like spitting water, like throwing up darkness.

“But…I never wanted you to say goodbye.” Damen whispered, searching for his blue eyes. Laurent looked back at him, obviously surprised.

This wasn’t what he expected.

“Then…what did you want from me?” Laurent whispered back.

“A chance.” Damen said, reaching out to take his hand. The beating of his heart was so fast it resembled the heart rate of a mouse. Fast, small, constant.

“You were leaving for college.” Laurent said, swallowing back the feelings he wanted to  let out since he was a fifteen year old boy.

“And you decided for me too. You just…left.”

“I didn’t,” Laurent laughed, disbelievingly, “I didn’t leave…that was you, Damen. I stayed here, I still had two years of high school left.”

“But you still left. You left me standing with my graduation robe. You left me standing alone in the music room, after listening you play. You left me, always staring at your back. You were always leaving, when all I wanted was for you to stay.”

“Then why didn’t you follow?”

_Why didn’t you say anything?_

“Because I didn’t think you wished me to follow you.”

“You had Jokaste.” Laurent smiled, “That’s the real answer.”

“Why did you tell me, then? You told me about it.”

“I just let Nikandros see the truth, and he told you. I didn’t do anything.” Laurent said. “The whore of your girlfriend and the junkie of your brother were never my problem.”

“You cared about me. You still care,” Damen caressed the back of Laurent’s hand with his thumb. “It was pretty…what we had.”

Laurent tensed up and took his hand away fast. Damen’s touch burned like the piano keys.

Everything he loved, hurt him. Loving felt like burning.

“We never had anything. You were…You just were Auguste’s best friend.”

“Was I never anything else to you?” Damen asked. His eyes were sad, like a rejected puppy. “To my eyes, you were never just Auguste’s brother. You were Laurent. A first violin, not second. A main tune, not an accompanist. Remember when you played me that song? The one about the pain of love?”

Laurent raised an eyebrow, “ _Love’s Sorrow_ , you mean?”

“Yes. I understand now, because I feel it. Everytime I look at you suffering, I feel it. And I think, you’ve been hurting for a long time. And I never realized.”

“So what? Do you think just by coming back here and whispering some pretty words related to the past are going to win you a golden ticket straight to my bed? Is that what you want? To part my legs?”

“No. No, no. I didn’t come here for that. For fucks’s sake, Laurent—“

“Do not toy with me.”

“I don’t.”

“Then, what do you want, Damianos?”

“A chance. Give me a chance.”

“To what?”

“To tell you everything I didn’t tell you in high school.”

 

***

Damen made him dinner. Eventually, the nausea and sick feeling had vanished. He was hungry, and tired, and so, he accepted Damen’s invitation for pasta. He had to admit that he was a very good cook, another feat he didn’t know whether to hate or adore. Or both. Or neither.

As they ate, sitting on the kitchen table, Damen talked about how worried Jord was, and Nikandros too. Although Laurent had a hard time imagining Nikandros worried about his well-being, he didn’t mention it. He talked about how much he missed Auguste, too. And how he loved Laurent’s house. He talked and talked about things that were not important, but Laurent listened. He liked listening to Damen’s voice. It was warm, sincere, melodious; like one of Chopin’s études, or Bach’s preludes. He couldn’t stop himself comparing the tune of Damen’s voice to various of his favorite music pieces, while eating _fettuccine al pesto_ and _caprese_.

“Was it good?” Damen asked and Laurent nodded, sipping more of his water.

“It was. Thank you…for making dinner.”

“I have to make sure you start eating properly again, or you’ll faint. You also have to take vitamins.”

“You’re worse than Auguste.” Laurent sighed, “I remember…when I was sick, he made me drink this disgusting licorice tea. I ended up vomiting more than once.”

Damen laughed, “You have a sensitive tongue, then?”

Laurent stared at him for a minute, and then covered his mouth as he laughed quietly. “That sounded _so_ wrong, Damen. I told you, think before you speak.”

“Why do I always mess up in front of you?” Damen’s cheeks were flushed, but he was still laughing.

And he discovered then, that when Damen laughed with him, his voice sounded different, better. It was better than Kreisler and Beethoven and Vivaldi together. It was such a perfect euphony he couldn’t help but enjoy it. More, and more, and more.

“I make you nervous,” Laurent smiled, “That hasn’t changed.”

He shouldn’t have this.

He couldn’t have this.

But maybe, he wanted it.

The question had changed. It no longer was ‘ _Will it reach him_ ?’ but ‘ _Will I risk it_?’

_Will he risk it?_

If Damen asked him to, he’d probably consider it.

Perhaps.

Maybe.

He thought that, if Damen was there, the dark sea would not be as dark, anymore. If Damen was there, he’d pull him out of the water.

If Damen was there, he’d have a reason to come back.


	8. Au revoir, votre altesse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again. 
> 
> Hello, friends. I have mixed feelings about this. However, it's really important for the plot right now, I feel like it's a transition chapter. But I hope you enjoy it<3
> 
> I want to thank both Lee and Ellen, my wonderful betas, for their support and constant screaming over this fic. It's been amazing<3 And thanks to all of you who leave Kudos and comments, God only knows how happy I get when I read them!
> 
> P.S. My beta Ellen just posted an amazing [44K Hogwarts AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8121196?view_adult=true), which I also had the pleasure to beta, so I'd really appreciate it if you could read it and support her as well. She's an amazing writer and one of the best friends I've made. 
> 
> Nothing more to say, enjoy the chapter!

“Are you going home?”

Laurent felt his heart stop. It was absurd, and he hated himself for it, but he couldn’t control his reactions when it came to Damen. He turned around, and Damen was smiling at him. He tightened the grip on the shoulder straps of his backpack and nodded.

“Yes.”

“Can I walk with you? Just to the bus station.” he asked, walking over to stand next to Laurent, who shrugged in response.

“You can do as you please.”

“Do you ever get tired of talking like that?” Damen chuckled, “You could relax a little. I’m not a stranger, am I?”

“Technically, you are. I still don’t know much about you.”

“Oh? And I thought we were friends.”

They started to walk across the courtyard and towards the gates of the school. It was April, the air was cool and the night was clear. In spite of the indifferent expression he wore, Laurent’s heart was doing flips and twists like an acrobat inside his chest. It was the first time he was alone with Damen. Truly alone; no classmates, no teachers, no Auguste or Nikandros or Jord in the middle. They were alone, walking home.

Like friends.

“Friends? Is that what we are?”

“Of course.” Damen grinned, “Even though you always seem to be avoiding me.”

“I don’t,” Laurent said, “I don’t avoid you. Our schedules are just different.”

“Yeah…it seems like we’re from opposite worlds. You have music, and I have the football team.”

 _But not Auguste_ , he thought, _Auguste can do both. He can play music with me, and run around the football field with you. And I don’t know whether I hate that or not._

“Were you training until this late?” Laurent asked, as he watched the city lights coming alive around them.

“Mhm. And you? Orchestra?”

Laurent nodded, “We had practice. The national contest will be in a few weeks.”

It felt…strange.

The more they walked and chatted, the more it grew, the strange feeling in his stomach. It made him feel happy, and a little bit sick. A little bit excited, and a little bit afraid. He couldn’t control his reactions, when it came to Damen. His heart always started beating faster than it should, and his stomach made bubbles. His chest felt tight, his mind dizzy, his legs numb. He didn’t feel like himself at all, to the point of considering the possibility of going to a doctor.

Why?

What was…that feeling?

“Where’s Auguste, by the way? He didn’t stay for practice too?”

“No. He…had some…issues to solve.” He said, and found himself frowning. He was a little bit worried about his brother. “With uncle.”

“Oh…you guys…don’t really get along with him, right? Auguste is always…ranting about him.”

“They…fight a lot.” Mostly over Laurent. But he didn’t need to say that.

Especially to Damen.

“You must miss them, your parents.” Damen said, gazing up at the sky, “I miss my mom, too.”

“How was she?”

“My mother?” Laurent nodded.

Damen inhaled, and they came to a stop, as they waited for the light to turn green so they could cross the street. “She was…a good mom. She loved to bake and create new recipes. She went to Charcy too, and was a regular student, like me.” He smiled. “How was yours? Auguste says she was French.”

“She was. We were not allowed to speak English at home. My mom wanted us to learn French perfectly.”

“Say something in French.”

“What for?”

“I want to listen to your voice.”

Laurent flushed. It was so instant and so unexpected that he couldn’t prevent it. His cheeks were red, and he tried to make his heart calm down as they crossed the street.

This was a problem. Damen was a problem.

He decided that, after all, he hated it. And he hated Damen. And football.

And Auguste, a little.

He didn’t want to feel like _this_. Was there a way to make it stop?

“You’ve been listening to my voice for the past ten minutes.”

“You know what I mean. They say the voice changes when we speak other languages.”

“Do you speak anything besides English?”

“I can speak some Greek.”

“Well, that’s impressive. You’re not as stupid as I thought.”

“Wow,” Damen laughed, “Thank you. That’s so nice of you.”

But maybe, walking with him wasn’t so bad. Damen was nice, and he was similar to Auguste. Kind, honest, foolish. It was a lie, that he didn’t know much about him. If someone asked him about Damen, he’d probably talk more than if someone asked him about his own life. It was just that, there was so much to say. And so much he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. For some reason, words escaped him every time they were together. And it was weird, so weird, because even when he felt like a total mess, he found out that he liked it.

“When Auguste gets mad,” Laurent started, “He yells in French.” And then, the laugh that followed couldn’t be stopped. It was so spontaneous that by the time he realized he was laughing, it was too late to contain it. “Last time, he called Uncle a _connard,_ a motherfucker _.”_

Damen stared at him, perplexed. And then a laugh took over him too, like a plague.

_“Go like a blight upon the dullness of the world.”_

“I think he has called me that too, actually.”

That only made them laugh more.

And they laughed and laughed and stars started to appear in the sky. By the time they reached the bus station, Laurent’s stomach hurt. But in a good way. Or so he thought.

“Au revoir, votre altesse.” Damen said, and bowed in front of him.   “Ce fut un plaisir de marcher avec vous.” He jumped into the bus and waved at him goodbye, with a grin on his face.

_Goodbye, Your Highness. It was a pleasure to walk with you._

“Tu m'as trompé.”  Laurent said, before the doors of the bus closed. Damen kept waving, until the bus disappeared out of view.

Damen could speak French, and he had lied about it.

Damen had tricked him.

As he walked towards his neighborhood, he couldn’t help but smile. He felt foolish, but as much as he tried, the smile wouldn’t fade away. And before he knew, he had started to sing.

Singing, he was singing. It was so rare, like a music coming up from deep inside of him. Something he had never felt before.

Yeah, perhaps, he hated Damen.

But only a little.

 

  
***

It was late morning, the sun rays slipped through the curtains and landed on Laurent’s face, making him stir up. He woke up slowly, calmly, with a tranquility he hadn’t felt in a long time. He tossed on the bed several times until he gave up and opened his eyes, admiring his surroundings. His room was quiet, but the rest of the house was not. He could listen to the sounds of kitchen pots being moved, and he smiled unwittingly.

Damen was awake too. He had slept on the couch, after Laurent had let him use the shower the night before.

Perhaps the tranquility came with the feeling of safety. To Laurent, thinking about things like these was unnecessary and rather silly, but he couldn’t help but admit to himself that he felt somewhat safer with Damen sleeping in the living room. The house didn’t feel empty and cold, anymore. It felt more alive, more…cheerful, if that could be the word for it. He hadn’t felt like this since before Auguste fell ill.

For the first time in a long, distressing year, he didn’t feel lonely. Because he knew that, eventually, when he got up, Damen would be waiting for him downstairs. And he also knew  that if he asked, Damen would stay with him. Of course, he was not going to ask him that. He had no right to. It seemed to him that he always ended up hurting Damen somehow, even if he didn’t want to. It was his nature to hurt him, and yet the brute didn’t understand. He didn’t understand that pushing him away hurt Laurent more than he could ever imagine, but it was something he did for his sake.

He needed someone he could love regardless, someone who would give him their everything, someone who was honest and that he could trust. Laurent was not that person.

Damen had asked him for a chance, and he wasn’t really sure whether he had refused or not. It had been confusing.

Everything with Damen was always confusing.

Denying the fact that he wanted to, though, would be too pathetic. He wanted to give Damen that chance, even if his insides screamed not to. In high school, their relationship didn’t end up well. And now, like a magic trick, Damen had appeared when Laurent needed him the most. And he wanted answers. Answers Laurent was not sure he could provide.

He was made of a thread of infinite lies, and Damen wanted to find the few truths hidden within him.

He rolled on his back and yawned, then closed his eyes again for a few seconds. He no longer felt as exhausted as he had the day before, nor as sick either. His head still felt heavy, and he was sleepy. He could still sleep for another good two or three hours, but that would be too much.

Laurent rose from the bed and grabbed his indigo cardigan from the chair he had tossed it on before going to sleep. The house felt really cold in the mornings, now that it was autumn. He certainly didn’t want to still be living in the house by the time winter came.

Damen was in the kitchen. Too focused on the omelette he was making to notice Laurent’s presence entering and sitting on the table. When he turned around, he jumped, still holding the spatula in hand.

“Jesus Christ, Laurent, you scared me.”

“Good morning to you too, Damianos.” Laurent couldn’t hide his smile. He enjoyed Damen’s reactions.

“Morning,” Damen smiled too, “Did you sleep well?”

Laurent nodded, carefully noticing how Damen’s bun was gone, and his dark curls were a total mess. “Judging by your bed hair, I’d say you did too.”

Damen grinned, and returned to the omelette. “It felt a bit strange, though. Being back in this house. I hadn’t been here since my senior year of high school.”

“Nikandros and you acted like if this was your house too. It was very irritating.”

“I—You must feel…lonely. I know it’s a stupid thing to say considering the circumstances, but, it’s…such a big house…”

“Yes. I was planning to sell it, actually.” Laurent admitted. “It’s too big for one person.”

“Really? Well…maybe that’s for the best.” Damen said, although he didn’t sound really convinced. Damen was the kind of person opposed to the idea of getting rid of sentimental values. He was the kind of person who would keep movie tickets and theme parks maps and small photographs of his family inside his wallet.

Unlike Laurent, Damen was a person who liked to remember, and not to forget.  Or maybe he didn't like it, but he was more likely to treasure than to throw away. He could never understand why, though, when remembering hurt like you’re being stabbed in the heart several times. Forgetting, even when painful, was like the feeling of a drug taking effect. It ended up soothing the pain, at least for so long.

He had promised Auguste, though, that he would never forget him.

Or…had that been a dream?

“When are you going back?” He asked, and felt a sharp pain on his stomach.

“Mmm? I thought I could go change and then come back,” Damen said, serving the omelette and the bacon on two plates. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you. I…was thinking it would be a good idea if we—“

“No, I mean,” Laurent interrupted and tried to keep his voice controlled, “When are you going back to Ios? Classes…will start soon.”

“Ah…I’m not sure,” he answered, and put a plate in front of Laurent. “I made a promise to Auguste. I guess…if you want me to leave, though, I—“

“No.” Laurent said, abruptly.

_Don’t go._

Damen blinked at him, and then poured some coffee in the mugs. “Would you let me finish my sentence?”

“I…Yes, of course.”

“I’ll stay, because I don’t think you’re in any condition to take care of yourself properly, and my best friend will probably kick my ass if I leave you like this. I can start school in January. I only have a few semesters left.”

Damen sat in front of him and handed him a mug with coffee. It was hot, but Laurent didn’t care and sipped it right away. Burning his tongue was another method to keep himself quiet, avoid saying unnecessary things.

“And you? Will you go back to school?”

Putting the mug aside, Laurent took the fork and played with the bacon on his plate. He hadn’t decided, yet. Obviously, he didn’t want to. He couldn’t really focus on anything at the moment. Going back to studying would probably be a terrible decision. But as much as it pained him, it was true he had to return to the real world sooner or later. He couldn’t even remember why he thought that majoring in English would be a good idea.

“I don’t know yet.” He sighed, and started to eat. He wasn’t hungry, but it was easier than talking. He tried to focus on the omelette instead, it had spinach inside and the cheese was perfectly melted.

“I read on google that spinach helps when you’re anemic. And also,” Damen reached towards the counter and grabbed a pill bottle, then tossed it to Laurent, who caught it in time. “Iron supplements. Take one after every meal.”

They ate in silence, mostly because Laurent was too into his own thoughts and Damen seemed to respect that. After finishing his bacon and eggs, Laurent took one of the iron supplements as Damen had indicated and swallowed it with water, although he doubted that the small pill could make something for his weak body.

He had let himself become this pathetic version of what once had been the best violinist of his generation. He couldn’t contain the hatred he felt towards himself. And when he looked at Damen, and he gave him that warm smile of his, he only felt worse.

Damen was the kind of person who treasured sentimental values, but Laurent had none.

“Where are you?”

Laurent turned his gaze towards Damen, who was watching him curiously. _Where are you?_ He had asked, like if they were kids in high school again. It was a game they had invented, mostly because Laurent was always somewhere else and Damen was always trying to open a window to that place. He was always trying so hard to understand him.

“I’m sinking,” Laurent said, then swallowed, “I’m…drowning.” He whispered and closed his eyes.

“Tell me how can I reach you.” Damen said, his voice soft, pleading.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t let you.”

He opened his eyes, only to find Damen sitting closer to him. He had moved the chair, and was staring at him rather seriously.

“Let me try.” He said.

_Give me a chance._

_“_ What if you fail?”

_Where are you?_

_“_ I’ll try again.”

_I’ll stay._

“I don’t know, Damen.”

_You left me._

_“_ Please, Laurent. I can help, let me help.”

_Let me try._

_Risk it, Laurent._

_Risk it._

“Alright.” He said, and sighed. A bit happy, and a little bit sick. A little bit excited, and a little bit afraid. His heart beating faster than it should, and his stomach making bubbles. His chest tight, his mind dizzy, his legs numb, his breath shaky.

It was starting, all over again.

He was letting it start, he was giving Damen the chance to fix him, to understand him, to open a window to his mind, he was letting him try to pull him out of the dark water, out of the pain and the loneliness and he hoped it was the right choice. Because Damen was the last thing he could allow himself to lose.

“Good,” Damen said, and smiled. “Because I was gonna suggest we go out tonight.”

 

  
***

He took a shower.

Laurent had left Damen cleaning up the kitchen and hoped that the hot water could wash away the oddness of the past few days. It had all begun when Auguste had left him an étude with Damen. He wanted to punch his brother, because even dead, he still could get in the weird relationship he had with the brute of his best friend.

He put his head under the shower head and closed his eyes, letting the water take away his thoughts too.

Damen had asked him for a chance, and Laurent had given it to him.

He didn’t know what to expect of it all.  He was torn between wanting him to fail and wanting him to succeed. Torn between refusing to accept his brother’s death and pushing away his feelings for Damen. Feelings that hadn’t stopped growing since he was fourteen years old. Not even when he tried to lock them in a room, light them on fire, drown them in water, throw them out of a cliff.

Was he allowed to feel such things, when his brother had lost everything?

Was he allowed to feel such things towards Damen, when Victoria was mourning her fiancé?

No. Of course not. That only made him more disgusting.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Auguste, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

If Auguste could see him now, what would he think of him?

He finished the shower, and stepped out. Dressed himself in a pair of black jeans and a grey jumper, then stared at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was getting longer, and he was paler than usual. But apart from those things, he was still Laurent. After everything that had happened, and all the pain he was suffering, his physic hadn’t changed. Like Dorian Gray, whose sins only made his picture more beautiful, he thought that the same happened to him. Even after everything he had done, the people he had hurt, as he grew old, he only got more beautiful.

He hated it.

He hated himself.

He took one last glance at his reflection, and then stepped out the bathroom. His wet hair was leaving a trail of drops as he walked downstairs and to the kitchen.

“Damen, you can use the—“

Damen wasn’t there. Everything was perfectly cleaned, but Damen was nowhere to be seen.

“Damen?” he called out. No answer.

He wasn’t in the living room, or the studio, or the guests bathroom. He wasn’t in the garden, or the library, or his parent’s bedroom. So, logic said there was only one place he could be in. But he refused to go there.

He swallowed and went upstairs again, walking towards Auguste’s room. It felt like a death march. Laurent couldn’t think. He obliged his legs to move, but he wasn’t really thinking. He hadn’t opened that door in months. Not when Auguste was in the hospital, not when he had died, not any time later and certainly not now. He didn’t want to enter that place.

He didn’t know if he could survive it.

And certainly, he couldn’t have been prepared for what he found there. His heart was beating at one hundred when he stood in front of the door, and for a minute there he thought he was going to throw up. Or faint again. Or both. But, as he creaked open the door, he saw him there.

Damen.

Damen, sitting on the edge of Auguste’s bed, clutching hard what seemed to be a portrait. And he was crying. The low sobs reached his ears and sunk Laurent’s heart to the bottom of the ocean. Never in his life had seen Damen crying. And he had to fight the tears that wanted to escape him too.

He made a sound. Like a choke, or a gag, or a sob, he really didn’t know. And Damen turned to see him. His face was red, his eyes swollen, tears rolling down with no mercy. He looked so heartbroken that Laurent felt in deep in his soul, and he thought he could never forget the intensity of the pain.

It wasn’t grief. It was something else, who hurt as much, but in a different way. It hurt because Damen was hurting and he knew why but he couldn’t fix it. Because suddenly it didn’t matter that he himself was in pain, it only mattered that Damen was crying and Laurent wanted desperately to make it stop.

So he moved, faster than he thought he could with his trembling knees. He took the portrait from Damen’s hands, and instead, he hugged him. Because he didn’t know what else to do. Because he wanted to say, “ _I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m sorry. I know. I loved him too._ ” But he couldn’t even untangle his tongue. He couldn’t play his violin.

“He was my best friend,” Damen choked, “He wasn’t suppose to die. God, I was going to be his best man.”

Laurent closed his eyes and held him, he held him tightly through the sobs and the choking and the tremblings of Damen’s body. And Damen held onto him like he was a lifesaver. Like he was everything he could need. Like Laurent was something of sentimental value.

When he had calmed down, Damen pulled away and bit his lip. Laurent sat next to him on the bed and ignored the urge of running away from that room. He took the portrait and stared at it. It was of Damen and Auguste wearing their graduation robes and holding out their high school diplomas. Both of them looked young and happy, ready to go eat the world alive.

“I should have been with him. I should have come back when I knew he was sick. I should have stayed until the end, but I thought…I thought he could do it. He was strong and I thought he could fight it, I thought he would win in the end.” Damen said, wiping away his own tears.

“I thought that too.” Laurent said.

“I miss him, so much. Everyday.” Damen said and his voice broke again.

“Me too.” Laurent whispered, and fought back the tears. His eyes were itchy, and the knot on his throat made it hard to breathe. “I miss him too, Damen. Everyday. Every minute.”

He felt it, the first tear.

And then the others followed, and he couldn’t stop them anymore. Like a river out of its bed.

Auguste was Laurent’s brother. And he thought that no one would ever understand how he felt. No one could ever feel the sorrow that was eating the insides of his own heart. But then, there was Damen, who had always understood him. Damen, who had taken care of him, and had played the piano with him. Damen who used to walk with him back home when Auguste was busy. Damen who listened to his music. Damen who played football with Auguste. Damen who became Auguste’s best friend in first grade.

Damen could understand. Damen felt the pain he felt. He felt the sorrow, the madness, the ill thoughts that corrupted his mind. The heavy burdens, the guilt, the could have beens. Damen understood everything, but said nothing.

Damen was in pain, and Laurent only pushed him away. When he needed to be comforted, when he needed the best friend that no longer was there, all Laurent did was make it worse on him. Because he wasn’t grieving alone but was too selfish to realize it. And Damen was too kind, too good to him to point it out. To scream at him his mistakes, his distress. Instead, he smiled, and made breakfast and dinner and laughed about lemons.

He laughed away the pain that poisoned his heart.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent said.

“No. Laurent, it wasn’t your fault.” Damen said.

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

He didn’t know what he was apologizing for. Maybe everything. He just wanted to fix it, to make it better.

He wanted to try.


	9. Half Oranges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, I can't believe we're already here. I had planned this chapter from the beginning, and still it took me ten drafts and two amazing betas (and some help from the Greek gods) to finish it. I know I updated a few days ago but I couldn't wait any longer and decided to post it early. 
> 
> As always, thanks to Ellen and Lee, what would I do without you?  
> And thanks for all of your Kudos and comments, they motivate me<3
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. Half orange(s): translation of the Spanish phrase "mi media naranja", which means “my half-orange”; use to describe, in love, one’s sweetheart, one’s beautifully perfect other half.

“What do you think?” Auguste asked, biting his bottom lip nervously.

Laurent blinked several times and tried to organize his thoughts as he shut closed his book. “You want to marry her?”

Auguste nodded, “Yes.”

“Auguste—are you sure? I mean…you’re only twenty-three.”

“I’m sure. I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. Victoria is...my soul mate. She’s my other half. My half orange!”

“Half orange?” Laurent raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side, like if that would help him understand better what his brother was saying.

“Yes, half orange. I…she’s fantastic. I want to marry her, I want to compose songs for her, and I want to buy a house and live with her and have children and a dog and…” he sighed, and smiled, and swooned, “I love her. God, Laurent, I love her so much.”

“You’ve only dated for a year. I don’t think that’s enough to truly love someone. I mean, it took me years and a lot of effort to manage to even feel some sort of fraternal love towards my dumbass of a brother.” Laurent said, rolling his eyes.

“Hey! You loved me from the very first day we met! I remember how you gripped my finger with your small hand. Ah, you were so cute. Whatever happened to that cute brother I had?” Auguste shook his head, and they both chuckled.

“So…are you going to propose?” Laurent asked, playing with the pocket sized book in his hands.

“I—Yes, I wanted to ask you first because…I wanted to give her mom’s ring.” Auguste said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Oh.”

Their mother’s ring was jeweled and golden, with a diamond nestled at the front, intricately decorated around the band.  It was the kind of ring that, in another life, would have belonged to a Queen. Victoria was kind, sweet, and beautiful, and she loved his brother with the same madness that he loved her. Laurent was sure that their mother would have liked her a lot. And that she would have been happy.

“Okay,” said Laurent, “Then do it.”

Auguste’s eyes widened and his lips curved into the biggest smile Laurent had ever seen in his entire life. “Really?”

Laurent nodded, “Mom would have liked her.” He whispered.

Laurent saw the sadness yet happiness of what he had said in Auguste’s eyes. Their parents would have been delighted to meet her. They would have been the typical annoying and curious parents and they would have probably made Auguste mad with their questions and embarrassing stories over family dinners, but now that they weren’t there, the longing for it felt greater.

Victoria had a pure heart, like their mother. She was joyful yet fierce, talented as she was beautiful. Like Auguste, she was also in love with life, and had the spirit of a warrior. In another life, she would have been an Empress. She was perfect, maybe too perfect for the dumbass of his older brother. And even when they were very young, Laurent knew they would be happy together.

“Plus, I do not intend to marry a woman.” Laurent said, making Auguste laugh.

“Of course not, little brother. Damen wouldn’t look good with mom’s ring.”

Laurent aimed the book at his brother’s head, and succeeded.  

 

***

After talking with the doctor, Laurent gave himself a moment to breathe before stepping into the room.

Things…were not right.

He inhaled deeply, and exhaled a few times before opening the door. Auguste was lying in bed, he was sweating with fever, but even so, he was smiling brightly. His hair was sticking to his face, his eyes looked tired and he looked like he was shivering too.

“Laurent,” he said and looked up at him, “Thanks God. Victoria is kicking my ass at UNO.”

Victoria chuckled, “You really suck at this game.”

“I suspect she’s cheating.” Auguste said, and Victoria laughed louder.

“I’m not a cheater! You’re such a bad loser.”

“She’s right.” Laurent said, and sat on a chair next to Victoria.

“Do you want to play?” She asked, smiling and shuffling the cards. Laurent nodded and accepted the cards she gave him. A couple of yellows, a few blues and two +4 black cards.

Auguste groaned and accepted his new set of cards, “Have some mercy, you two, I’m a sick man.”

“You were a loser way before you got sick, so shut up.” Laurent said and Victoria nodded in agreement.

“I’m going to call the nurse.” Auguste pouted.

“You’re such a baby.” Victoria shook his head.

They started to play. So far, Laurent was winning. Auguste had a pile of cards due to the amount of plus fours Victoria and Laurent had thrown at him, and he had groaned and cursed but he seemed to be enjoying it nonetheless. It was only when the effects of the medicine started to kick in that Auguste started to fall asleep. Victoria collected back the cards and put them back on their case, which she then threw it inside her purse.

“Are you going to stay the night again?” she asked, and Laurent nodded.

“Yes. Some nights he can’t breathe properly, or he wakes up puking.” He said.

“I can stay with him during the weekend, if you want. I’m sorry…I wish I could help you out more…” she bit her lip and sighed, then turned her gaze back to her sleeping fiancée.

“It’s fine…I understand.” Laurent said, following her gaze. “And I’m sure he does too.”

“You can have the weekend off; I’ll come and be with him, okay? You need some rest too. Have you been studying? Your finals are soon, aren’t they?”

“Yes…I usually study when he’s sleeping. Or…whenever I get a chance.” He admitted.

“Oh, Laurent…you have to take care of yourself as well, alright? Maybe you should take the whole week off; I can skip a few classes and talk to my boss.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I want to. He is my fiancé, the man I’m going to marry next year. I have to be here for him.” She said, but Laurent could notice the slight trembling of her bottom lip, and the shaking of her right hand.

“Victoria.”

He didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know what to feel.

“What did the doctor say?” she asked, and her voice broke. She was strong, but Laurent could tell something inside of her was breaking, every day she saw Auguste in that bed. However, the flames in her eyes never seemed to extinguish. Besides the pain the worry and the sleepless nights, the flames were still there.

“He isn’t well, Victoria. He’s not…responding well to treatment. He’s weaker and weaker…and…the doctor said he…” he closed his eyes and inhaled again, giving his heart time to prepare for the punch. “He said that Auguste might not make it to the end of the year. He said…he only has a few months left.”

Victoria covered her mouth. Her perfectly manicured hand shaking as she passed it over her face, she breathed shallowly, and looked on the verge of tears.

“No. There has to be a way…maybe…what about trying another treatment­--with another doctor? There has to be something we can—we have to…we can’t let him…” Her voice faded as she started to cry. She covered her mouth again and looked at Auguste. She stroked his face with her free hand, and took the damp hair out of his eyes, moving it to his forehead. She caressed his cheek with her thumb, and he sighed. Auguste took her hand and held it close to his chest, opening his eyes weakly to look at her.

“I love you.” He said.

“I love you too.” She whispered, “Go to sleep.”

She kissed his lips, then his forehead until Auguste was sleeping again. His chest was rising and falling with his uneven breaths.

It was unfair.

It was devastating, and he was angry.

His brother didn’t deserve this life, confined to a hospital room for months and months. He didn’t deserve the torture of the illness, destroying his body, taking everything he loved in life. He deserved to be happy, and healthy. He deserved Victoria, to marry her, to have annoying small pianists with her.

Auguste deserved everything that Laurent was pushing away. He deserved to be a composer and go to the conservatory Laurent kept rejecting. He deserved to go out with his friends, talk about TV shows and bands that Laurent would probably hate. He deserved a normal life.

Not this.

It was so _unfair_.  

Laurent would gladly exchange it; he’d gladly give his brother everything because he knew he would enjoy it more than him. He was a nineteen years old boy, who liked to read books and was good at playing the violin. But Auguste was a bright star, the best pianist of his generation, an outstanding composer, popular and witty and everything that Laurent was not.

Auguste deserved it more than him. He deserved everything.

But he was dying.

And Laurent could only sit and watch. He could only call the nurse when his brother woke up out of breath. Or hold the bucket while he threw up bile and a medicine that was no longer working. He could only read him stories through the feverish nights, watch him break down as he realized his life was ending. He could only sit and watch his brother’s torture repeat over and over again, hoping that the next day it would stop or be less, when in reality it just got worse.

He could only sit down and watch when the love of his life cried for him.

He was angry at everything. He felt like his organs would explode sooner or later. Because he could not stand the fact that his one and only brother, his only family left in the world was dying and he couldn’t stop it. Instead, he had to sit and watch.

“I have to go now, Laurent.” Victoria slid her hand away from Auguste’s and tucked him in with the blanket. “I’ll try to come back tomorrow after lunch.”

He nodded and watch her clean away her tears with her sweater sleeve.

“You’re a good brother, you know that? He’s so proud of you.” She took Laurent’s face in her hands, and didn’t care when Laurent tensed up and tried to pull away. She stared at him for a minute, kissed his forehead, and then let go. “You both have the same eyes. Although yours…they are sadder, colder.”

And then she left.

 

***

The room was the same.

Nothing had changed at all, except for the dust accumulating on the surface. Laurent felt like he had travelled in time, back when his brother was still alive. His clothes were in the closet, his books perfectly aligned in the library. Even the laundry basket was full. Everything in that room was suspended in time, like if one day Auguste might walk into the room again and continue with his life.

Like if he was going to come back.

Damen was still staring at the portrait in his hands. He kept whispering things meant for Auguste, like old promises, old internal jokes that now were Damen’s only. It was when Laurent realized that, just like he had lost a part of himself when Auguste had died, Damen had too. There was a piece of Damen that would never come back, leaving behind only the memories, only the images that one day would fade away and vanish forever.

The memories can fade, but the feelings linger.  Like music and people. Music stays; it keeps living even when the composers are gone. Auguste had died, but his stuff remained in that room. And even if it was true that he had taken a part of Damen and Laurent when leaving, it was also certain that as long as both of them were still alive, Auguste would not fade away.

They wouldn’t let him.

It was strange. And Laurent thought that maybe this was another stage of grieving. It changed, when someone next to you was also hurting. When someone finally understood.

“You can keep it,” Laurent said, staring at the portrait as well.

Damen nodded, “Thank you.”

“If…there’s anything else you want, from his belongings I mean, you can take it,” Laurent whispered, “I have to clean this room.”

“I’ll help you.” Damen whispered back. They were whispering, like if someone else could hear them. Like if they were doing something that was wrong and were afraid of being caught. “It wouldn’t be easy…to go through it alone.”

It felt like a funeral march, going through Auguste’s stuff. Novels he never finished, laundry still in the basket, his laptop on the desk, homework he never handed in, slept on sheets on the bed that Laurent wasn’t sure he could take off. It felt like they were intruding, messing up with Auguste’s remnants of what once had been his life.

Because now that he was gone, everything was exposed. It surprised Laurent that even when he knew his brother well, he still found things that surprised him. Like the fact that he actually kept his school notes organized or that he kept a family picture with their parents in his wallet. Like he still had the old ukulele he loved to play in high school, or that he wrote hundreds of short love letters to Victoria. Melodies he wrote on napkins, or on the margin of his textbooks. Even when they were brothers, Laurent discovered little details about Auguste that he hadn’t seen before. Or perhaps if he had seen them, he hadn’t cared. Because Auguste was alive, and he didn’t realize one day he could be gone.

The dictionary describes the definition of the verb “to miss” as to note the lack of something that is commonly used and has been replaced by something else, or to note the absence of a person and feel sorry. And the word “absence” is described as something or someone no longer existing. Synonyms: lack, deficiency, absentia, _want_.

The fact that he wanted Auguste to be back but to know that he won’t. The fact that two years ago, he would have never imagined this would happen. That his brother would be just absent. Gone. That _existence_ could change to _absence_ in a minute. The fact that things that used to make him happy, like music, like his violin, like that beautiful, big, black piano on the studio, would now only bring him pain.

He realized then, that life was ephemera.

And cruel, too cruel.

Why should he care, anymore?

Why should he keep trying?

He had lost…everything.

What was the point?

He looked at Damen, who was crying silently as he found photos of him and Auguste, as he found Auguste’s football uniform of their team in high school. “Keep it,” Laurent whispered.

Damen looked down at the uniform shirt he was holding with Auguste’s team number and nodded. He cleared his throat before he spoke, “I found his jacket too.”

He held it up for Laurent to see. It was his brother’s old leather jacket. The one he always wore to go to the conservatory. He used to say it brought him luck. He hadn’t worn it ever since he got sick, even when it was his favorite.

Laurent took it and rubbed his thumb over the leather. It was Italian, and it had been their father’s. After they had died, Auguste had started wearing it.

And now it was Laurent’s.

“I also found this.” Damen said, and Laurent looked up to see what it was.

Music sheets.

“That song…that Auguste composed in high school. The one we made together, all of us.”

Laurent took the paper from Damen and felt himself shaking slightly as he read the title. In the end, there were some ghosts he couldn’t run from.

The memories can fade, but the feelings linger.

Like music and people.

Music stays; it keeps living even when the composers are gone _._

 

_“The Anthem of the Heart”— for orchestra._

_By Auguste de Vere_

 

***

After they had cleaned out everything, Damen left.

He took a few boxes full of things to donate to charity with him, and said he’d be back later, after he had changed his clothes.

_“And don’t forget we’re still going out tonight.”_

Laurent still didn’t quite understood where or how or why he had agreed to go out with Damen that night. But apparently he had, and he kept cursing himself for doing so.

Auguste’s room was now empty. It was no longer his brother’s room, but just…a space. Four walls, a bed, a desk. It had taken them almost all day, but they had done it. Together.

The room that had made Laurent sick and anxious was now a memory. His demons were no longer there.

It was just a room.

It was nearly six, and he felt the silence of the house like a heavy weight on his shoulders. Damen shouldn’t take long, but until then, he was alone again in that house. It no longer seemed or felt like his house, like a place he belonged to. It felt more like a prison, and he was trapped inside with cuffs on his wrists. Chains he carried around like a suffering soul. Demons that kept on haunting them, and he couldn’t fight them back.

Water swallowing him.

Mirrors breaking.

He sat on his bed and stared at Auguste’s song.

_The Anthem of the Heart_

It was a sappy song, filled with melancholy. He remembered, how Auguste had begged him to be the first violin for his project. He remembered how in those days he felt so proud of his older brother, because Auguste was such an excellent composer. His music moved people’s feelings. It touched their hearts, squeezed them, and hugged them. His music brought people happiness, even when they were going through hard times. His music was life, and hope, and light, and existence not absence. His music was made to fill voids, not create them. Auguste’s piano sang with joy, it sang with the promise of better tomorrows, it was always saying _it’ll be okay._

Auguste’s music had brought him comfort over the years. And even when he was a good violinist, he couldn’t reach that level of…passion, sentiments, _talent._ Laurent’s music didn’t comfort, it didn’t heal wounds but opened them. He was good, he was sharp, and perhaps he did have passion too, but he didn’t have light. Where Auguste’s was light, Laurent was darkness. Where Auguste’s music guided the lost souls, Laurent threw them into the void.

People always asked why he played the violin. They asked him if he even liked music. He thought that there must have been a time where he did enjoy it. He knew that the moments where he enjoyed music were when it changed from agonizing to paralyzing. From hurting, to soothing. He never wanted to inflict any pain, he was only reflecting himself. The music that his heart created was hollow and empty and ugly.

_You have a perfect technique, but no sentiment._

_Laurent, you could be much more than this._

_What do you want to say?_

_What do you want to express?_

_What are you hiding from?_

He had enjoyed music once, but at some point, it just started twisting within him, until it became another of his demons.

So what was the point?

He decided that he didn’t want to be a violinist, anymore. So he rejected the conservatory, and entered university. Then, Auguste had fallen ill, and he abandoned his violin.

Perhaps if they had never been musicians, this would have never happened.

Laurent was no longer angry. He was mournful. Synonyms: depressed, sorrowful, blue. And the worst part was that Auguste couldn’t comfort him with his piano, anymore. He grabbed his brother’s leather jacket and put him on. It was too big for him, and he felt like it swallowed him completely. But it was his brother’s jacket, and it still smelled of leather, in spite of the years it had.

He didn’t have Auguste’s music. But perhaps, he could still find something inside of him.

Some notes. Some melodies.

He decided he didn’t want to be a violinist anymore, but he realized that he missed it. And he had rejected the conservatory, but he didn’t like being an English major either. Everything was confusing. All the decisions he had took were now stones in his stomach.

Perhaps if he hadn’t abandoned music, this would have never happened.

People said you could find comfort in your own suffering. He didn’t quite understand, but he wanted to try.

Laurent opened the doors to his closet and took out his violin case. It was dusty, and he cleaned it with his own hand. Inside, his violin was intact. Like if it had been waiting for him all this time. Like it knew he would come back, sooner or later. He took it in his hands, touched it like he used to. Felt its weight on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, and tried to find the first note. Somewhere inside him, his violinist heart shook with excitement.

And he started to play.

There was a thing about voids. They could either be filled up, or grow and get bigger. Music had the power to do that to people. And Laurent wasn’t sure what would happen next. He hadn’t played in months. It could either be a disaster or a success. Or neither, and he could remain the same.

But, he wanted to try.

Damen has asked for a chance.

He had asked him to risk it.

So he would.

He would risk it. Because life was illogical, and cruel and ephemera and he didn’t know how to feel or what to do, and this seemed like the only solution left.

To play.

_The only thing we can do is play, even when destroyed, even when being torn apart into pieces, we must play._

_Chopin’s “Ballade No. 1 in G minor, Op. 23.”_ The song Auguste had played on stage, before he collapsed. It was for piano. It was about loneliness.

The song that had started everything.

Auguste’s personal favorite.

His hand moved as he played the first chords. It was far from perfect, because he had not played in months. His fingers had lost part of the flexibility that allowed him to play. But still, he continued. It burned, it ached. Worse than it did with the piano, worse than it did when Damen touched him. But he had to endure it, he had to play this piece.

He tried to remember how the piano used to sound. He didn’t have music scores; he had thrown them away in boxes to donate. But he had the memories; he had Auguste’s interpretation saved in his mind. He just needed to find it.

He played, as if Auguste was playing his accompanist. He played through the memories, the sickness, the tiredness, the agony, the crying, and the guilt. He played, even though he felt his hands were skinning off. He played, even though he wanted to stop and throw the violin away, to break it, to light it on fire and sink it to the bottom of a black, dirty ocean.

He played, because he was a musician.

And he regretted it, not playing for Auguste. He regretted the stubbornness, the selfishness, he regretted rejecting the conservatory. He was crying, gasping for air, but he wouldn’t stop. He felt like dying. Auguste had felt this pain. Aimeric had felt it too. And Jord. And Victoria. And Damen. And all the people who have ever lost something important.

Something that mattered.

Something of sentimental value.

A person, a friend, a memory, a feeling, a promise, a melody.

_Keep going._

_Laurent, keep playing._

_Tell me more._

_What do you feel, Laurent?_

_What’s hurting you?_

_Tell me more._

So he told it all. The truths, the lies, the hidden secrets.

And the violin understood.

 

***

Damen arrived a little past eight. He had showered and changed clothes, and also pulled up his hair in a bun that made Laurent swallow unwittingly. It was a reflex.

“Are you ready?” He asked with a smile. “You’re wearing his jacket.”

Laurent nodded, “Where are we going?” He asked, as he stepped out of the house and closed the door behind him.

“I thought we could go to the small café, get some dinner, talk…” Damen shoved his hands in his pockets. “If it’s okay with you, I’d rather if we walked. Instead of taking the car.”

“How far is it to the café?”

“Not far.” Damen chuckled. “You could use some fresh air. Plus…we used to walk home together, remember?”

“That was too many years ago.” Laurent said, but started to walk towards the street.

“Now who’s talking like an old man.” Damen joked and followed him.

The night was clear, and he felt a vague feeling of Déjà vu. Of course he remembered. He remembered it perfectly, because the hammering beatings of his heart were the same that he felt when he was much younger.

It was comical.

After all those years…the feelings remained.

He felt drained, and he didn’t know whether the void had grown bigger or had started to heal. He could only focus on the night sky, and the man that walked alongside him.

As they walked, Damen made small talk. He told Laurent that the University of Ios was just ten minutes away from the beach. And that sometimes, when he was too stressed, he’d go there and lay on the sand. Listen to the waves, watch the stars.

“It feels a little like when we walk through the city under the stars, but lonelier. All of my friends stayed here after high school. I was the only one who moved.”

The centre of the city was loud and crowded. There were lights everywhere, and the streets smelled of food coming from the restaurants and pubs. The café Damen took him too was small, but pretty. It had this bohemian air that Laurent instantly liked. And Damen couldn’t help but notice this.

“You already showed me your music. It’s time to show you mine.” He said, as he opened the door and let them both in.

There was a live band playing on a small stage by the corner of the place, and some people were cheering. They sounded like a mix between The Wombats and The 1975 and Laurent wasn’t sure whether he could like that or not. They managed to find a table next to a wall full of posters with pictures of different interpretations of Operas, like _Pagliacci_ , and _Madame Butterfly_ , and _The Barber of Sevilla_.

He instantly liked the place more.

After a few minutes, a waitress with purple pixie hair and a huge smile came over them to take their order. Laurent quickly scanned the menu and settled up for a salad.

“The tangerine chicken salad for me.” He said.

“I’d like the double burger with extra bacon, please.”

The girl scribbled the order down and smiled, “Any drinks?”

“A mojito for me.” Damen said, and both looked at Laurent.

“Same for me.”

As the girl walked away, Damen raised an eyebrow at Laurent.

“Didn’t know you liked mojitos.”

“I’ve never had one, actually. I don’t drink.”

“If you’re entering some rebellious phase, Laurent, I think you’re a little too late.”

Laurent couldn’t help but smile, even as he crossed his arms and looked away. Damen could tease him.

“Trying to imitate me, Damianos?”

“Just playing your game, sweetheart.”

“You’re in a good mood tonight.” Laurent said and turned his gaze back to him.

“Today was a weird day. And…I think we both need a laugh, you know? A break. Especially you, Laurent. Look, there’s good food, good music…”

“You ordered a burger.” Laurent said.

“And what’s wrong with a burger?”

“Burgers are commoners’ food.”

Damen blinked and his eyes widen, “You can’t be serious. Everyone likes burgers!”

“Do you think Chopin liked burgers? Do you think Beethoven wrote _Moonlight Sonata_ after devouring a double burger with extra bacon? No, they didn’t.”

“You have to be kidding me.” Damen said disbelievingly.

“I thought you liked playing my game.” Laurent said.

“I can’t believe you don’t like burgers.”

Laurent rolled his eyes, “Get over it, Damianos.”

“Okay, but the music is good.” Damen insisted.

“That loud noise in the background? A stray cat can sing better.”

“Not everyone can be Mozart.”

“And not everyone likes burgers.”

“You’re impossible.”

Damen laughed, and Laurent smiled. And by the time the food came, the band was playing a song that was catchy and happy and even when Laurent said to hate it, Damen caught him tapping his foot to the beat. And Laurent made a face while drinking the first mojito, but then ordered another one. And he made a disgusted expression as Damen ate his burger, but stole half of his fries.

“Fries don’t count.” He said.

After eating, Laurent was slightly tipsy, even if he denied it. The mojitos had taken effect, and he felt…not good, but calm. He didn’t feel particularly happy, but he didn’t feel sad either. The gloomy fog from his mind had disappeared, as well as the heavy weight on his shoulders. He just felt calm, and maybe a little dizzy, as he walked next to Damen.

Damen always made him feel things he didn’t understand. Sometimes, when seeing him, he felt excited. Other times, he felt disgusted. But other times, he just felt calm, and quiet, and relaxed.

Sometimes, Damen made him think of a million things at the same time, it came to a point that he couldn’t keep up with his own thoughts. But there were other times where Damen seemed to shut them down. To drown his negative thoughts away.

“Did you have fun?” Damen asked him and smiled.

“It was okay.” Laurent answered and looked up at the starry sky. Small lights shining down for them, guiding them home.

He wondered if Auguste could play with stars, wherever the hell he was now. It was a childish thought, he knew. The damn mojitos.

“I’m glad.”

The streets were now almost empty. It was around midnight, perhaps a bit later. Laurent crossed the street, and wandered through the entrance of the park. Damen followed, keeping his pace. There was a shortcut he knew, passing the fountain and exiting through a hidden path next to the west entrance. They’d get to his house faster.

Although, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back there.

“Where are you?” Damen asked.

“I don’t know.” Laurent said.

“You seem lost in thought”

“I’d say it’s quite the opposite.” Laurent said. And then, “Where are you?”

“Here, with you.” Damen answered. “My mind isn’t anywhere else.”

“So you’re not thinking of anything?” Laurent asked.

Damen shook his head, “Nope.”

“Not surprising.” Laurent said, and Damen snorted.

“Why are we here anyway?”

“I know a shortcut.”

“You’re drunk, Laurent.”

“I’m not. I can speak coherently and walk on my own, right? So, I’m not drunk.”

“Stubborn.”

“ _Connard_.”

“ _Orgueilleux_.”

“ _Bête_.”

Laurent came to a stop as they reached the fountain. It was still functioning, even late at night.

“What’s wrong?” Damen asked and looked at him. “Are you feeling sick?”

He shook his head, “Auguste proposed to Victoria here, by this fountain. It was spring.”

None of them said anything for a minute, until Damen broke the silence, “Were you there?”

“No. He told me about it afterwards. But I remember…he said it was here.”

“He was very romantic.”

“Disgustingly romantic.” corrected Laurent, and started to walk away.

He couldn’t help but remember them, Auguste’s vows. He had written them, way before the wedding. He had written them to propose to her. Because he was like that. Disgustingly romantic.

And he made promises that he couldn’t keep.

 

***

Damen slept on the couch again.

Laurent fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. They made it home around two in the morning, and didn’t even bother to change clothes. Laurent didn’t know anything else of himself till the next day, when Damen woke him up.

“What?” Laurent asked, opening his eyes slowly.

“I’m sorry. I—there’s a kid downstairs.” Damen said, frowning.

“A kid?”

Damen nodded, “He said he needs to talk to you. He mentioned…Auguste.”

After Laurent had regained some consciousness, both of them walked downstairs. There was a boy standing by the door. Laurent thought he couldn’t be older than fourteen years old. He had light brown hair, soft curls falling on a graceful face. Two big blue eyes like sapphires, staring back at him. He was wearing a Charcy uniform. The dark blue pants, the white long-sleeved shirt, the blue tie that distinguished him as a music student.

It was like looking at a ghost. Or a reflection.

Or both.

“My name is Nicaise,” said the boy. Voice still high-pitched. “Laurent de Vere, I want you to mentor me.”


	10. The Anthem of the Heart | Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are.  
> I can't believe we're already at this point. The High School Arc aka Part 2 of this story starts here. It's been a real pleasure to write this, so I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. I remember brainstorming this whole arc even before I started writing the first chapter, I'm beyond excited for you to finally read it! 
> 
> As always, thanks to Ellen and Lee for being the most wonderful betas (and friends) in this world, and all of you for your amazing comments.<3
> 
> Welcome to Charcy Academy.

 

 

> _Go my songs, to the lonely and the unsatisfied,_  
>  _Go also to the nerve-wracked, go to the enslaved-by-convention,_  
>  _Go like a blight upon the dullness of the world._  
>    
>  -          Ezra Pound

 

Perhaps they all had gone wrong. At some point, at some dialogue, at some paragraph or unstoppable action. Maybe they went too fast, maybe they were not thinking at all.

_And suddenly you realize that it’s over, and there’s no going back. That the melody is gone, and that perhaps these things only happen once. That what had started won’t finish, and that no matter how much you try, you won’t feel the same again._

**Part I**

**_February_ **

 

Everyone held their breath.

The music room was quiet, which was very uncommon these days. Everyone held their instruments tightly to their chests and waited for the professor to tell the final results. Laurent couldn’t help it either; he was the one who had proposed Shostakovich against the popular option of Brahm’s _Hungarian Dance No. 5_ and he wanted to win more than anything. His own heart was torn between speeding up and stopping completely.

_Let it be Waltz No. 2_

_Let it be Waltz No. 2_

_Please._

Professor Guillaume, who was also the director of the Charcy Juvenile Orchestra, opened the last folded paper and smiled, reading aloud for everyone to hear, “It is decided, then. Shostakovich’s _Waltz No. 2_ ”

_Yes._

People started cheering, and the corners of Laurent’s twitched in an involuntary smile. Waltz No. 2 was his favorite. To play it in a gala concert along with the orchestra was something he had desired ever since he joined it. Finally, he had his chance.

“I’m sorry, Professor. But I think,” said Aimeric, the second violin who sat next to Laurent. The fourth son of a businessman, and Laurent’s number one hater in the whole Academy, “That Brahm’s _Hungarian Dance_ would be more appropriate for a gala concert. You said it’d be a good opportunity to show off our talent before the nationals and _Hungarian Dance_ is technically more difficult than Shostakovich.” Then, he turned to stare at Laurent, rather arrogantly.” It’d be more appreciated.”

“Yes, Aimeric, I know what I said.” Professor Guillaume was still smiling, throwing away the unfolded scraps of paper they had used to vote. “I’d like to keep my class a democracy, though. And your classmates have voted. I can’t change the decision now.”

“But—“

“Look, gala concerts are supposed to be fresh and fun. You’ve all been working hard for the nationals and I thought that this was a good opportunity not only to show off your talent, but also to help you all relax a little. Waltz No. 2 is very light, very soft and short. I think Laurent was right in suggesting it.”

The bell rang, meaning morning practice was over. Boys and girls started to pick up their instruments and hurrying them into their cases, before running out the classroom and to their first class of the day.

“Laurent, Aimeric, do you both have a minute?”

Laurent put his violin back into its case and closed it softly before getting up from his chair and walking towards the desk, where Aimeric was already at, impatiently tapping his foot on the floor.

“Laurent,” said Professor Guillaume, “You’re going to play first violin. Aimeric, you’re second. I don’t think I need to remind you that the strings section have a major role in Waltz No.2. I don’t want a repetition of last year’s Christmas concert, please. It’ll be a gala concert; I want you to both have fun. Understood? Especially you, Aimeric.”

“Yes, Professor.” Aimeric said, almost whispering. Laurent knew Aimeric hated being second violin. Everyone knew by now, probably.

“Good.” He started at both of them before sighing, “Now go to class.”

 

***

It was the middle of February. The air was chilly, but the sun was shining and the sky was clear. Laurent sat on the grass next to his brother, who was leaning against a tree, playing the ukulele. He looked at ease, with his head laying back, eyes closed, his expression calm as he sang quietly until he noticed Laurent’s presence.

“Well, hello, little brother. You’re out early.” Auguste smiled, and stopped playing.

“No, you just have too much free time.” Laurent said, “How come seniors have more free periods? Third years can barely breathe.”

Auguste chuckled, “That’s because we’ve had our share of stress already.”

“Where’s Damen?” Laurent asked and looked around. Usually, where Auguste was, Damen was not far away.

“He and Nikandros went to buy drinks from the vending machine.” Auguste explained, and then grinned, as the sounds of Damen and Nikandros’ voices came to their ears. They were talking about a TV show Laurent didn’t watch.  “Speak of the devil.”

“Where’s Jord?” Nikandros asked, “I got him an iced tea.”

“He’s still taking the exam. He was already done, but was correcting the answers when I left.” Laurent explained, and watched how Damen sat next to him and handed him a juice box.

“It’s pear juice.”

 _Your favorite,_ he didn’t say, but Laurent didn’t need to hear it to know.

“Thanks,” he whispered and stuck the small straw into the box.

“How was the practice with the orchestra?” Damen asked as he sipped his orange juice.

“We’re playing Shostakovich at the gala concert. Much’s to Aimeric’s disdain.”

“Can’t you two try to get along? You play the same instrument, after all.”

“It’s not that easy, Damen. Plus, that’s his fault, not mine.” Laurent said and took the straw to his lips.

“He gets along with Jord. And Jord is your closest friend.” said Damen.

“Jord gets along with everyone. He’s been class president for three years in a row, like Auguste.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.” Auguste grinned and strum some chords on the ukulele.

“Because it is.” Nikandros said and then his expression changed as he saw Jord, walking towards their group. “How was the exam?”

Jord sat next between Damen and Nikandros, giving him a small smile. “It was long, but I think I could get a twenty.”

As his friends wandered in conversation, Laurent only watched them. He didn’t know whether that group of boys could be called his friends. They were mostly Auguste’s, and he had only come along because it was better to eat his lunch with his older brother than to eat alone in a corner. Most of the time, they talked about things Laurent didn’t watch, bands he didn’t listen to, movies that never caught his attention. It didn’t really bother him, but there were days where he looked at his brother and wondered how it would be.

Auguste was loud, he was fun and patient and extroverted. Laurent was the opposite, quiet, reserved, and easily irritable. If it wasn’t for their looks, most people couldn’t tell they were related.

It was a weird feeling. To be there, but not to truly belong. He didn’t think about these things before, but somehow now he did. Perhaps it was because, now, something inside him had changed. He had recently understood what his heart had been trying to tell him for a long time. That he was falling for his older brother’s best friend. It was a chaotic thought, a truth that had slapped him hard on the cheek. Damen wasn’t a stranger, even though Laurent acted like he was. Damen had been in Laurent’s life since they were kids, and for years he had thought Damen wouldn’t be more than he was. Just someone he knew. Someone from Auguste’s life that somehow had also entered his.

But then, they grew up. And Laurent had turned fifteen. And this had happened.

It made him feel silly, and embarrassed. Damen was a senior, and he would turn eighteen in July. It was too much of a difference. There was no way Damen would ever see him as something that wasn’t his best friend’s little brother.

He realized then that, for the first time in a while, he felt sad.

Damen… he had Jokaste.

_Affliction._

Jokaste was also a senior.

_La maladie d’amour._

She was popular between boys, with her blonde hair and blue eyes, the pretty smile and the attitude of a Princess. Beautiful, yet mischievous.

_Love’s sorrow._

At fifteen, he was experiencing things he wasn’t sure how to control. And looking up at Damen only made things worse. He was smiling widely, chewing carelessly at the small white straw from the juice box that now was empty. One of his curls always falling on his forehead. His eyes shining, reflecting a joy so pure Laurent was taken aback. He noticed Laurent was looking at him and returned the gaze, smiling warmly.

_Don’t look at me like that._

Damen, in another life, he would have been a King.

In another life, Laurent wouldn’t have even liked him.

But this was his only reality, with no possibilities of alternative universes and changing in scenes. The only problem was that, Laurent didn’t know which character it was that he was supposed to be playing.

Was he the enemy? The friend?

_The lover?_

He flushed instantly at the thought, and felt the pear juice twirling in his bubbly stomach. No. This was wrong. He was wrong, he was nothing.

And this was stupid.

And childish.

And he’d hide it. He’d hide it until it went away. He got up, and was about to walk away when Auguste stopped him.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom.” Laurent said.

“Are you okay?” Auguste asked, clearly seeing through him, clearly reading his mind.

_Damn Auguste._

“Yes. I’ll see you later.”  

He walked away, controlling his own legs and emotions to avoid running. He didn’t want Damen to look at him like that again.

Perhaps, in another life.

 

***

Laurent entered the bathroom quickly. He felt as if he would throw up his heart out in the toilet. He gripped the sink with both hands and looked at his own face in the mirror. He was red, all over.

_This is your own fault._

_You should know better._

Thinking about Damen was always a bad idea, because he couldn’t control his reactions, his thoughts. He told himself he’d have to learn, though. Laurent had to learn to hide his emotions even more, even to himself.

He was about to open the faucet when he heard it. A voice. Or rather, voices. Giggles and whispers and groans that were not really common in the boy’s bathroom from the first floor. Then, there was the sound of a lock. Whoever was inside that stall would walk out any second now.

_Hide._

That was his first instinct, his first reaction. Hide. He entered the nearest stall and closed the door quietly, carefully holding his breath.

Those voices, he was sure he knew them. Laurent peered through the cranny of the door and waited for them to come out. It was a boy, tall with dark hair, and a blonde girl. But he’d know that head anywhere. He’d know that face anywhere. Because he found himself constantly hating it. Wishing she’d disappear. Trying to outdo her. His eyes widened slightly and he couldn’t help but watch as they left the bathroom hand in hand.

It was Jokaste.

Kastor, and Jokaste.

Only when they were long gone did he allow himself to breathe. He turned around and rested his back on the stall door, not even worrying for a minute that he was in the boy’s bathroom and that it wasn’t hygienic at all. Not even caring that the bell had already rang and he was still there, hiding.

His only thought was one word. Everything that he was running from in the first place.

_Damen._

 

***

“Is there something wrong with the mashed potatoes?” Auguste asked.

Laurent didn’t even look up from his plate. He knew that if he did, Auguste would see the truth in his eyes. He always knew, somehow, like he had a special power over Laurent. The power to know what was crossing his mind. He shook his head and took a spoonful of food into his mouth. Laurent had always liked Auguste’s food, but now he couldn’t taste anything. He wasn’t even hungry.

“Did something happen today?” His brother asked again, this time sitting down on the table and picking a fork to eat as well.

He wanted to tell him that he wasn’t his dad, that Laurent didn’t need to tell him everything that happened in his life. But those were not his words; he would never say that to Auguste. Not after everything he had sacrificed for Laurent after their parents had died, not after everything he had endured to get his full custody and send their uncle back to hell where he belonged. He looked up from his plate to meet his brother’s friendly smile that didn’t match the suspicion and worry shining in his eyes. It was completely oxymoron. How could his brother be so bad at hiding emotions? He shoved more food into his mouth to avoid speaking up. It was difficult to chew, difficult to swallow. But he didn’t want to say things he’d regret saying. He was the kind of person to keep secrets, either to save them for later opportunities, or take them to the grave with him. He continued to eat in a rush, and he could feel Auguste’s gaze on him.

This was wrong.

But then again, what about this whole situation wasn’t wrong? He had seen them. Jokaste and Kastor together in the bathroom, while Damen was drinking orange juice in the courtyard with his friends.

He hated them both.

“Slow down, Laurent. If you eat too fast, your stomach will hurt later.” Auguste sighed, “Did something happen with Damen?”

Hearing that, Laurent choked. He choked on the mashed potatoes, and ended up spitting food and gasping for air. He could hear Auguste sighing again, like a father who had just watched his kid do something really dumb, while he handed him a glass of water that he took immediately. Laurent drank carefully, avoiding choking again, until he had calm down and his mouth was free of food. He left the glass on the table and finally returned his brother’s gaze. Auguste’s eyes were saying ‘ _You can’t lie to me_.’ And that, Laurent knew very well.

“I saw Jokaste and Kastor together, in the bathroom.” He said. He didn’t like how it felt, telling secrets. He wasn’t made for telling them, but to bury them in a place far away no one could ever find them.

Auguste put his fork down and stared at him for a few seconds, “You saw them. In the bathroom.”

“Yes. This morning when I went to the bathroom, they were there, in a stall. I don’t think I have to explain to you what they were doing.” Laurent said. There was a pause, where both brothers stared at each other. And then Laurent realized that Auguste already knew that. He knew all along.  “You knew.” said Laurent.

“I’ve been suspecting this myself for a while. But I wasn’t sure, I didn’t have enough proof.” Auguste admitted, he looked… disappointed. Sad. Troubled.  Like if he had been wishing with all his heart that this wasn’t the truth. “Damen… he’s going to be…”

“I know.”

That was why Laurent didn’t want to say it, not even to his brother. Because if he did, it was impossible to back down. Damen was going to know. Damen needed to know. He was going to be hurt, and Laurent didn’t want to see it. But it was necessary, like in the books, like in the operas he really liked, there were always troubles, tragedies, affairs, deceiving. The main characters always suffered, and the side characters watched.

Laurent had always felt like a side character. And now, all they could do was tell Damen the truth, and watch how his heart broke in pieces.

“You know I’m going to tell him, right? I have to. I can’t let my best friend be in a relationship with a person like Jokaste.”

“You mean a whore.” Laurent said and nodded, “I know you will. But, Auguste, don’t tell him it was me who told you.”

_I don’t want him to know._

He didn’t want Damen to look at him and imagine him hiding in the boys bathroom while he heard and watched Jokaste with another guy. He didn’t want Damen to associate it with him at all.

“If that’s what you want. I won’t reveal you have a good side, Lo.”

“I don’t have a good side. It’s just the side effect of hanging out with you and your friends.” Laurent murmured and went back to eating. Auguste did the same.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Auguste sighed, “Jesus, they shouldn’t do _that_ at school. Can’t they wait?” He rolled his eyes as he stabbed a piece of meat with his fork.

“It’s okay.” Laurent said.                          

Side characters were meant for that.

 

***

Damen was absent. And Laurent, he was annoyed. Annoyed with himself for standing like an idiot at the bus stop, waiting for the next one to come and go to the other side of town. Annoyed with Damen, for not going to school and making Laurent anxious enough to go to his house. Annoyed with Auguste who couldn’t give him a ride in his car. Annoyed with Jokaste, who had started this whole problem.

It had been an ugly fight. Laurent wasn’t sure when or how Auguste had talked to Damen about it, but he was present - as was the rest of the school - when he broke up with Jokaste. It should have been a private matter, but Jokaste manipulated the situation on her favor, making it seem like Damen was the asshole, and not the other way around. She protected her reputation and popularity.

Laurent wanted to kill her.

Damen didn’t go to school on Friday, and he didn’t go back on Monday, and it was already Thursday and Laurent had been so distracted that he had played the wrong note during orchestra practice, and then he had started late, and then the tempo was too fast. And Aimeric had taken the chance and Professor Guillaume made them switch parts and Laurent ended playing second violin on his favorite Shostakovich piece.

He was annoyed, and it was all Damen’s fault.

Damen wasn’t the type to run away from these situations. Had he loved Jokaste that much?

Love.

Could you love someone at seventeen? It wasn’t possible. Or was it? What did he know? What did Damen know? He was probably being dramatic.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the bus. It stopped, and Laurent stepped in quickly. It wasn’t really crowded, so he sat down next to the window and put the book he was carrying on his lap. The book was his excuse. Damen had lent it to him to help him with his Greek homework. Damen was good at languages, and Laurent hated to admit that perhaps he had a skill for it that Laurent lacked. Damen could speak French and Greek fluently like a native, without any accent and extended vocabulary. Laurent wanted to outdo him, so he had been studying harder.

_“I see your Greek has improved.”_

_“The whole point of taking classes is to improve, Damianos.”_

_“Not if you’ve got talent.”_

_“Are you saying I don’t have talent?”_

_“I’m saying that I speak your language better than you speak mine, sweetheart.”_

After that, Damen had pulled out a book from his bag and handed it to him.

_“To help you improve.”_

It was a compilation of easy Greek poems. Laurent had to start for searching the words he didn’t understand that were many, and then try to comprehend the grammar. But it was truth that he felt better when he finished it. He had more vocabulary and felt more confident about the language. He owed Damen that.

So, he was going to return the book.

He spent the fifteen minutes that took the bus to get to Damen’s neighborhood by looking through the window. Thinking about what he was going to say when he got there. He wondered if Damen would even open the door, or was too depressed for that.

The bus stopped, and he hopped off. He walked for another five minutes until he reached Damen’s house. He had never been there, so Auguste had texted him the address earlier. He rang the bell, and waited.

Some minutes later, the door opened, and he stared into a dowdy looking Damen. He was wearing a tank top along with shorts and flip flops. His hair was a mess of curls, and he was holding a PlayStation controller on his left hand.

At first, he looked confused. Then, surprised. He blinked a few times before saying, “Laurent?”

“Who else?” Laurent said and rolled his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Damen asked.

“Returning your book.” Laurent said, and pushed the book into Damen’s chest.

Damen eyed him for another minute, “You came all the way here to return this? You could have done so at school you know.”

“Well, someone hasn’t been coming to school, so it made it a bit more difficult.” Laurent said sarcastically.

“Yeah…I’ve been taking a break.” Damen bit his lip and rubbed his neck.

Laurent got even more annoyed.

“A break? In February? You couldn’t even wait till Carnival?”

“Why does it bother you so much?”

Laurent stopped and for a minute thought in walking away. It’s true, it didn’t really concern him. Why was he even there? What did he expected to happen?

“It doesn’t.” he said.

Damen seemed pleased with himself, and Laurent thought about murdering him. This wasn’t amusing in the slightest.

“Want to come in? I made ice pops.”

Laurent nodded, and Damen stepped aside to let him in. The house was pretty, and big. Smaller than Laurent’s house, but still big for an average house in the neighborhood. He knew Damen’s dad had a furniture factory, and it was pretty famous at the moment. It reflected on the nice couch and the TV where a video game was paused, even if Damen insisted on dressing and acting like a hobo.

“You can sit wherever. I’ll be right back.” Said Damen, before disappearing through a door that Laurent suspected led to the kitchen. He sat down on a cream colored couch and put his bag and violin case down. He felt strange, like intruding into a part of Damen that he wasn’t allowed to see before. But, he also felt happy.

_You’re being pathetic. Again._

He shook of the thoughts and Damen appeared with two ice pops. He handed one to Laurent and then sat down next to him. “They’re lemon flavored.”

Laurent licked his. It was cold, refreshing after walking in the sun. Sour, yet sweet. “Is this what you’ve been doing all week? Eating ice pops and playing video games?”

Damen smiled, “Some homework too. Nikandros keeps me updated.”

“What about showering?”

“Only every two days.”

“Disgusting.”

Damen chuckled, and Laurent’s heart jumped. He was doing this correctly, somehow.

“You had orchestra practice?” Damen asked, looking down at his violin case.

“Yes. The gala concert will be soon.”

“Can I go? I mean…can we all go? To support you.”

“It’s not a contest, but…I suppose if you want to, I can’t stop you.”

“Then we’ll go.” Damen smiled.

He didn’t know where he found the courage, but he did. “Are you okay?” Laurent asked.

“I…It hurts.” Damen said after a pause, letting out a small laugh.

“I’m sorry.”

What else could he possibly offer as comfort? What could he say to make Damen feel better? Usually, that was Auguste’s job.

“Don’t be.” Damen whispered, “Thanks for worrying about me.”

_Don’t thank me for that._

He was worried. He cared. And Damen noticed, but perhaps not completely. Perhaps it wasn’t enough. Laurent couldn’t help but feel disappointed, and anxious. And it was messing up with his mind, with his music.

Auguste said that the heart had a melody, and once you discovered it, there was not going back. But this was not his story, and he was only a side character. How do you take someone out of your heart?

_I like you._

In another life, perhaps, Damen would have liked him back.


	11. The Anthem of the Heart | Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super late, I know.  
> I don't have a good excuse. I've just been feeling like sh*t emotionally and I've been procrastinating. However, this chapter is longer than usual. Hope that makes up for the delay. 
> 
> Thanks to Ellen and Lee, as always, for their awesome work in dealing with me and my angsty characters. Also, thanks to Kelly, Amy and Alesia, you've been amazing as well. 
> 
> Your comments are always so lovely, so I must thank each of you, too. <33
> 
> P.S. Lee and I made a playlist of modern songs for [Étude](https://open.spotify.com/user/xlydiadeetz/playlist/1pocMT6jGpAlm1CiqEJWfC), in case you want to listen to it. You can yell at me later.

**Part II**

**_March_ **

 

February left like a soft breeze, letting March take over. It was the middle of the second term, soon enough it’ll be April and the stress of the exams would reign over Charcy. Laurent, however, didn’t seem to care. At least not now. He was one of the best in his class, constantly shifting between the top three. He didn’t mind studying; on the contrary, he preferred it to wasting his time with useless things like his classmates.

However, he did enjoy having a free period. Third years’ schedules were the worst in Charcy, they had too many classes to cover, including extra activities like clubs or music lessons, and even private tutoring. On a normal day, after orchestra practice, Laurent could easily walk out of school around five. He barely had any time to breathe between classes, only lunch and a recess in mid morning.  Free periods were rare occurrences for the third years. Only first years and seniors had the absolute joy of them, to the point of seniors having Fridays off.

So, whenever he got a taste of the wonderful _dolce far niente_ , Laurent spent it wisely. He was sitting under the shadow of the giant tree his brother had claimed as his group’s “place”. The leaves moved with the wind, gently stroking his hair. He was reading while listening to his favorite Ravel tunes.

It was indeed a good day.

He was so focused in his reading that he didn’t notice when Damen showed up. It was only when Damen covered his eyes with his hands that he gasped in surprise.

“Hello, _Vicomte_.”

“Damen,” Laurent said, “Why are you covering my eyes?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, you have.”

When he could see again, his eyes wandered over to Damen, who was smiling brightly over him. His red tie was loose around his neck, the sleeves of his white shirt tucked up. He watched him sit down next to him, under the shadow of the tree.

“It’s hot today, isn’t it?” Damen said, and let out a small sigh as he sat down.

“Yes.” Said Laurent. And then, “Don’t you have class?”

“Not an important one,” Damen grinned and winked at him.

_Remember to breathe._

“You and Auguste are always so reckless. I wouldn’t be surprised if you failed a subject in your senior year. Like idiots.” Laurent said and returned the attention to his book.

“Hey, don’t be pessimistic! I’m doing well in my classes. Well, most of them, at least.” Damen said, “Why are you here reading on your own?”

“Our math teacher gave us a free hour.” Laurent murmured.

“Oh. Where’s Jord?”

“He’s playing volleyball with the rest of the group.”

He couldn’t really focus on the book anymore. He was pretending to read the lines, controlling his breathing and posture. He was aware of Damen’s gaze over him, of his warm body next to his, their shoulders touching. Damen smelled of sweat and some remnants of cologne from the early morning. He smelled of grass, and classroom, and _Damen_.

“What are you reading?” Damen whispered next to him.

Laurent shook away his thoughts, and felt almost embarrassed for thinking about things like those. He was only grateful his most intimate thoughts were safe inside his mind.

“A story about a Prince who is sent to the enemy Kingdom as a slave,” Laurent said, and looked up to meet Damen’s dark brown eyes. They reminded him of the toasty colour of _cannelés._

“Why would someone do that?” Damen asked.

“He was…betrayed. By his brother.”

“What happens next? Does he escape?”

“Maybe you should read it, too.” Laurent offered, “I have read it already. Once. I can lend it to you if you want.”

“I…don’t read much.” Damen admitted and smiled.

“It wouldn’t kill you if you read from time to time, you know.” Laurent shook his head, “It has a good ending.”

“Does he manage to return home, in the end?”

“Yes. He…falls in love with the Prince from the enemy Kingdom. And he regains his throne.”

“Sounds like a wonderful story, in my opinion.” Damen said, “I called you Vicomte, but now that I think about it, you’re more like a Prince.” Damen’s hand moved to take a strand of hair out of Laurent’s face. He didn’t dare move, or breathe, or think. He stood very still, until Damen moved back. This was the closest they had been to each other. Ever.

_Remember to breathe, Laurent._

“Why do you think that?” Laurent asked, ignoring the odd way his heart was beating. Ignoring the ache of his stomach, the subtle shaking of his hand.

“You look like one.” Damen said, “You…are beautiful, Laurent.”

Laurent didn’t miss the way Damen’s cheeks reddened next. It was an image he hoped he could forever. Damen was calling him a Prince, when he himself was a King.

Could it be, then, that their thoughts were not that different?

“It is different to look like a Prince than to be one, Damen.”

“I know. But I meant that…the way you act. The way you speak, and play the violin. It’s like if you were…a character taken out of a book. You don’t seem real.”

This didn’t seem real.

Not a single word of it.

“Maybe we’re all characters from a book.” Laurent said.

“Maybe.”  Damen agreed and took one of Laurent’s ear buds, “What are you listening to?”

“You’re not going to like it.” Laurent said.

“Why not?”

He shrugged, and looked away as they both listened to the same song. _Pavane de la Belle au Bois Dormant._  

“I know this song,” Damen said, “My mom had a music box, and it plays this song. “

“Do you like it?” Laurent whispered.

“I do. Although, it’s kind of sad, don’t you think?”

Laurent nodded, and said, “That’s because it’s Ravel. Most of his works revolutionized the world of piano. They’re characterized for being intensely human, and expressive. He was…meticulous, and perfectionist—Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like that.”

“I like listening to you talk about music. Your eyes light up. Like when you play the violin.”

 

 _Do you like it?_ He wanted to ask. _When I play the violin, do you like it?_

 

***

“Okay, guys, before you go, please listen to Auguste. He has a proposition for you.” Professor Guillaume gestured to Auguste, who walked up front and smiled widely. Laurent knew that face. It was the face Auguste had when mastering a new song in the piano, or the face he held as he bowed in front of the public after a performance. It was bliss in its purest form.

“Hello. Most of you already know me. I’m Auguste de Vere, and until last year I was a member of the orchestra. I had to quit to focus on my audition and entry exams. I play the piano, and my dream is to be a composer. You’re probably wondering what I’m telling you this, so I’ll go straight to the point: As the senior representative, I am in charge of the graduation speech and the projects that will take place that day. It is known that in Charcy, the music students that graduate usually make a performance during the ceremony. Most of the time, it’s a classical piece, rarely anything modern. But this year, the teachers and directive have allowed me to take on this project and make it differently. I would like to compose something special for this year’s graduates, and also to the whole school in general. Of course, I’d need people who play different instruments, so if any of you –no matter which year you’re in—would like to be part of this, you’d be more than welcome.”

Auguste smiled, and Laurent was a hundred percent sure he could hear the hearts of the girls beating like crazy. He had that effect on women, men, animals, plants, maybe even instruments. Auguste was loved by everyone, and Laurent could see in the Professor’s smile that teachers were included on that list.

“Auguste didn’t mention it, but if you participate you’ll receive extra points in all of your music courses. And, if you’re planning to do composing or general music studies after graduating, this could be a good experience.” He said, and people started chattering.

Of course, most of the music students at Charcy wished to pursue a music career after graduating. Some, like Aimeric, even wanted to aim for the National Symphony. It wasn’t surprising that he was the first one to rise up his hand.

“I’d like to participate.” He said.

Both Professor Guillaume and Auguste smiled, “Sure. Please write your name, the year you’re at and what instrument you play in this paper. Don’t feel pressured, though. I know most third years have a tight schedule, and we’d have to stay late for practice. We might even meet out of school, so it’s up to you.”

Two minutes later, there was a line of students writing their names on that paper. Aimeric, and Torveld, Vannes, Huet, and at least ten others. Laurent looked up and met his brother’s gaze. Auguste walked to his chair and Laurent put his violin in its case.

“You’re not going to write your name on the list?” Auguste smiled.

“No need. I already told you I’d help you.”

Truth was, Auguste had woke him up in the middle of the night. He had slided next to him in bed, and had whispered his name until he woke up.

_“What’s wrong?” Laurent asked._

_“I can’t sleep.” Auguste whispered and poked Laurent’s face. “What were you dreaming about? You looked happy.”_

_“I was drinking the blood of my enemies.” Laurent covered his mouth as he yawned, “Why can’t you sleep?”_

_Auguste chuckled, and then shrugged, “I have this idea. I have…this song in my head. It’s my last year of high school and I want to do something special. After July, we’ll all take different paths. I want to make something…with Damen, with Nik and Jord and you. I want us to make something together.”_

_“Then do it.”_

_“Will you help me?”_

_“Do I have any other option?” Laurent said, but they both knew it was a fake excuse. Laurent never hated Auguste’s projects and he was the first to help him._

_“You’re the best brother in the world, do you know that?”_

_“Yes. Now, can I go back to sleep, please?”_

No one could play the violin in his brother’s piece but him. It was an unspoken rule.

“Do you have any friends in the regular classes that might want to join? I need help writing the lyrics.” Auguste said.

Laurent didn’t know what was more astonishing, that Auguste thought he had friends, or that he was going to add lyrics to his music. That was entirely new.

“I’m disappointed. I thought you’d know me good enough to know socializing is something I lack the time or motivation to do.”

“Ah, don’t be mean. I was just saying…maybe Damen knows of someone. I want music and regular students to work together for once, we’ve always been divided.”

“Isn’t that the whole purpose of Charcy? Music students one way, regulars the other?”

“Yes, but…Lo, music is supposed to bring people together. It is supposed to make the connections, to tie our pinky fingers with red strings. Not to separate us.”

“Music can’t be the answer to everything, Auguste.”

Auguste smiled, “Maybe not, but we’re musicians. It is our job to change that.”

 

***

Usually, he ignored Jokaste.

Honestly, they never really crossed paths. Jokaste was a regular student, so Laurent could count with his fingers how many times he had walked past her in a hallway. More now than ever, he avoided her. The rage he felt when he saw her or heard her name was something he had never felt before. She had hurt Damen. She had destroyed his heart. Three weeks had passed, and even when Damen tried to act normal, Laurent could notice the changes. That his smiles were smaller, that his eyes did no longer shine. That when he played football, he didn’t seem to give all of his energy. It was as if he was in low battery mode, as if something vital had shut down inside of him. Something that gave him his peculiar, infuriatingly delightful personality.

And Laurent hated her for that.

So when he saw her standing in the hallway in the music building, talking to some other girl, he seemed to lose all the composure he’d managed to retain till the moment. They were giggling, gossiping.

How could she laugh like that, carelessly, talking about other guys, when Damen had cried for her?

_Who the fuck does she think she is?_

She noticed him staring, and she held up his gaze, “Is there a problem, Laurent?”

_Yes. You fucked the guy I liked and then tore his heart into pieces._

“It smells of shit in here.” He said.

“Excuse me?” She stopped twirling a strand of hair in her finger. “What?”

“The smell of whore is hard to take out, isn’t it?”

Her expression didn’t seem to change, but then she sent her friend away and walked towards him. She wasn’t smiling, but she wore a comical expression. Like those of someone who thought they had already won a battle that hadn’t even started.

Laurent wanted to laugh. She was just another whore in the world. Someone who didn’t really deserve his attention, but he couldn’t help but be mad. She had hurt Damen.

“I thought Damen could defend himself. If he has anything to say to me—“

“And I thought you could keep your legs closed, but guess I miscalculated.” Laurent said, calmly, “I overestimated you, Jokaste.”

“Overestimate me? I think you underrate me. You don’t even know me. In fact, Laurent, this is the first time we’ve talked.”

“You can know a lot about a person after they fuck their boyfriend’s brother in the school bathroom, if you want my opinion.” Laurent said softly, “See, Jokaste, I thought you had way more class than that. But whores will be whores.”

“And what can a sexually frustrated virgin can know about sex?” Jokaste laughed, “Oh, I didn’t know you were that desperate for Damen’s attention.”

“I didn’t know you were that thirsty for cock that you had to do it in a bathroom stall. But again, I guess we both miscalculated.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled, “So this is what it is. Are you supposed to be my opponent or something like that? A fifteen year old virgo intacta coming to fight me?”

“Opponent? You’re not even a fair rival. You already lost, and I didn’t have to move a finger. That truly is efficiency.” Laurent looked at her, ice meeting ice, sword against sword. But his was sharper. “Was it worth it?”

“You—“

“Was it worth it?” he asked again.

“Damen and I are graduating, Laurent. And you will stay here.”

_Thought so._

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” he said, but he was already walking away.

“Wait—Where are you going?”

“Usually, when you see a piece of shit on the way, you walk past it.”

And that’s what he did.

 

***

“How do you play to convince them?” Jord asked.

“I’ll just ask.” Auguste shrugged.

“Nikandros already said yes, though.” Damen pointed out.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” Laurent asked, and the three of them turned to look at him, “I’ll do it.”

“No, wait, Laurent!” Auguste tried to grab him but he was already stepping into the room.

The light music club was known for being the rebels of Charcy. They never had enough members to keep it open, but somehow struggled and survived each year with the minimum of four people. Laurent didn’t quite understand why Auguste needed a guitarist, a bassist and a drummer for his song, but Laurent would convince them to help. He wasn’t the type of person to give up on what he wanted. Nikandros had already agreed since he was Auguste’s friend, and he was currently slamming on the drums when Laurent entered. Apparently, they were in the middle of a song. The  bassist was eyeing him up and down with disinterest. He knew the guy. He was the one all the teachers disliked, mostly because he was always causing troubles. Kallias was the epitome of the world “rebel” and also the true face of the typical and very cliché stereotype of the school’s “bad boy”. Laurent returned the gaze and crossed his arms, waiting for them to finish.

“Hey Laurent, why are Auguste, Damen and Jord peering over the door?” Nikandros raised an eyebrow and Laurent turned around to see the three faces staring back at them, the three idiots believing they were invisible.

“Auguste wanted to convince your group to participate in his project.” Laurent said.

“Participate in a project with the music students?” Kallias laughed, “Want us to have tea and cookies to discuss it?”

“Kallias,” Aden threatened and gave him a long look, “You know Auguste is not a bad guy.”

“He’s the only one that is worth saving.” Halvik replied and glared at Laurent, who only glared back.

“Even so, why should we help you? The music students are always laughing at us, like their classical boring shit makes them better than us.” Kallias said.

“That,” Nikandros said, “is true.”

“You aren’t helping.” Laurent said.

Nikandros only shrugged, “I’m going to stay neutral here.”

“What do you want?” Laurent asked and looked at each one of them. “We could make an exchange.”

Kallias looked up at him; his eyes said he was considering the offer. Laurent thought he was probably wondering whether making a pact with the devil will be worth the risk.

He already knew what they wanted, though. You didn’t need to be a genius to know. If you had been at Charcy enough time, you’d probably already realized music and regular students were treated differently. While music students had many opportunities to show off their talent, regular students had none. Of course, they had the option of clubs and extra activities, but it wasn’t the same. They didn’t cultivate their talent as they did with music students, and they weren’t as appreciated either. The light music club was composed of regular students; they played instruments that didn’t have place in a classical orchestra, so they were out of the music program. It wasn’t fair, especially when they _did_ have talent and Laurent had to admit that they _did_ sound good.

But life wasn’t really fair. And he shouldn’t really care about them either; they could do well on their own.

Plus, if they couldn’t be compared to Vivaldi or Paganini, they weren’t worth his time.

_Damn Auguste._

“Talk.” Kallias said.

“You want people to recognize your talent. You want to play on a stage. And you also need new members or the club will be dissolved,” Laurent said, “If you agree to help my brother, you will play with the music students on stage during the graduation. That could also serve to get new members, and the whole school will be watching you.”

Laurent watched as the three of them stared at each other. Nikandros, who had been watching too, smiled at him. It seemed things were going okay.

“Not enough,” Halvik said finally. “If we play on stage with the music students, then all eyes will be focused on them. Even if we help, they’ll take all the credit.”

“Okay. Then, how about you play during the Carnival? People from outside the school will come too.” Laurent offered.

Again, the looks. Their eyes had light up and were having a private conversation Laurent couldn’t decipher.

“Can you do that?” Aden asked.

“I can arrange it.” Laurent nodded, “We have a deal?”

“Not so fast, De Vere.” Kallias said and grinned, “We have a deal, if you can tell me which song it was we were playing.”

Laurent stopped. He hadn’t been listening for enough time to know. He cursed internally and started to look inside his mind. What was the song?

Before he knew, there was a sound. Drums. He turned around to see Nikandros playing, and gave him a small smile again.

Perhaps, he wasn’t as bad as Laurent thought he was.

Aden and Halvik followed, taking the mic and the guitar. Kallias was the last one to give in, and soon enough they were playing together.

That’s when Laurent realized, he did know the song.

He stood there, listening, like he listened to Beethoven and Prokofiev. He stood there, because his senses were betraying him, one by one. He was a music student; he breathed and lived the classicals like he was Debussy’s lost child. But this was also music.

And he liked it.

And he knew. Damn, he _knew_ the song.

He wanted to smile at the irony, because Kallias knew what he was doing.

_She said the devil will want you back_

_And you’ll never fall in love with an open hand_

“Handshake,” Laurent said. A song from a band he rarely listened to. A song that wasn’t very famous, but that he particularly enjoyed. A guilty pleasure only his iPod knew about.

Kallias nodded, but the song didn’t stop.

They had a deal.

The things he did for his older brother.

He walked out the classroom to the staring faces of his brother and friends. They looked happy and excited and impressed. Laurent rolled his eyes.

“You knew that song?” Auguste asked.

Laurent shrugged, “I heard it on the radio the other day.”

“The radio?” Auguste raised an eyebrow.

“How did you convince them?” Damen asked.

Laurent shrugged again, “I negotiated.”

“Kallias made a pact with the devil,” Jord said, and grinned.

 

***

It was crowded.

Charcy’s Carnival was famous in town. Students and teachers sold tickets to people from outside the school. It was an event not only to celebrate the holiday but also as a fundraiser for the Cancer Research Institute. It lasted two days and there was food, music, games and…too many people.

Laurent wasn’t especially good with crowds.

The decorations were inspired in the Venetian Carnival, and almost everyone was wearing masks. They all seemed to be having fun, except for Laurent, who was almost dizzy. And, he was alone.

All the seniors were helping with the stands, and he knew he didn’t have any right to be angry at his brother but he was. Maybe the fact that it was hot and he had spent the last hour eating candies didn’t really help his situation. And Jord, who was supposed to be with him, had gone listen to Kallias’ band with Aimeric. Although, Laurent had thought it was a bad idea, considering Nikandros was the drummer and it was rather obvious he had feelings for Jord. Jord was the only one who didn’t seem to notice.

Now, Laurent was sitting down at a bench, trying to take the stupid golden mask off his face and breathe slowly. Auguste had tied it up for him, so now it was almost impossible to remove.

He had lost count on how many times he had cursed his brother in the past fifteen minutes. He had tried looking for Damen, who had invited him to go “together” and then had vanished somewhere. His phone almost had no battery, the music was too loud, and he was lost in the sea of people.

_ What a day. _

“Are you okay?” a voice asked. He looked up to see a tall guy wearing an emerald green mask with touches in gold. The eyes, he knew them, but he seemed to be too dizzy to focus. “You look like you’re going to vomit.”

“It’s a possibility,” Laurent said.

“We’re together in the orchestra, do you know who I am?” the guy asked, and then lifted up his mask.

Ah.

Laurent nodded, “Torveld.”

Torveld smiled, “Do you want me to bring you something? Some water? The infirmary is also open—“

“Water would help.” He was basically melting under the sun.

“I’ll be right back.”

A few minutes later, Torveld was back with a bottle of water that Laurent took and sipped instantly. He felt better, and rubbed his eyes under the mask.

“Do you want to take it off? I saw you trying, but it seems to be too tight.”

“I’m alright,” he lied. “Aren’t you supposed to be with someone?”

“Ah, my friends went to listen to the band. They’re good, aren’t they?” Torveld asked and smiled.

“Yeah, they are.” Laurent didn’t mention that he had almost had to pawn his liver to convince the teachers let them play during the Carnival.

Auguste owed him.

“Feeling better?” Laurent nodded. His mind had stopped spinning, although he was still very pissed with Damen and the rest. Especially Damen.

“Thanks for the water. How much was it?” Laurent asked.

“A few cents.” Torveld shrugged, “But, wait, no. You don’t need to pay me back. Let’s walk together instead, since my friends seem to have abandoned me.”

And they did. Torveld was talkative, and Laurent was fine with that. He was good at listening. Torveld played the saxophone in the orchestra; he was one of the firsts to play in the first part of Shostakovich’s. He was a good musician, and as a person, Laurent found him rather calm, but very smart. However, he seemed like the type of person who was easily manipulated.

“Do you want to try?” he asked Laurent. They were in front of some toys machines. You entered a dollar and you’d get a small prize. There was a poster next to it with the pictures of everything you could win, instruments keychains, pocket sized plushies, animal erasers, and a bunch of others.

“Let’s try the instruments ones first.” Laurent suggested and took a dollar out of his wallet. The machine took it, and then a plastic egg went down a slide. Laurent opened the small door and took it.

“What did you get?” Torveld asked.

Laurent opened it and revealed a silvered bass horn keychain, “I was hoping for the violin.” He frowned.

“If I get the violin, I’ll give it to you.” Torveld said, and entered a dollar. He opened the egg to find a golden flute. “It looks like a stick,” he said. And then they both laughed.

Laurent felt odd. He was laughing with Torveld, a guy he had never talked to in his life. He was a fourth year, and the only moments they saw each other were during orchestra practice. Laurent had planned to be with his brother, and Damen, and Jord, but they all had left him alone.

It didn’t feel completely bad, though.

“Hello, trying mic, one, two. Okay! Can everyone hear me?” The music had stopped, and one of the teachers had taken the microphone up stage. Kallias’ band seemed to be taking a break.

Just how much time have passed? An hour, two? He had been walking around trying games with Torveld and hadn’t really noticed.

“We’re about to start the raffle. So, please check the number on the back of your ticket.” The teacher said who Laurent recognized as the History teacher for the second years. “This year we’re giving away three prizes. On the third place, we have this beautiful teddy bear with a silk bow. It is exclusively made for the event, as you can see; it’s wearing a Charcy uniform!”

Laurent looked around; everyone seemed to be attentively waiting the raffle. He saw Aimeric and Jord looking at the back of their tickets for the numbers. He also saw Nikandros and Damen chatting about something. As a magic trick, they all seemed to be converging in the same place at the same time.

But when Laurent had needed them, the bastards were all gone.

“The lucky winner of this adorable teddy is,” The teacher took a paper from a glass jar and unfolded it; she had a smiled while reading the numbers, “Number 07139! Lucky winner, please come claim your prize!” she said, and someone brought up stage the bear. It was white and rather big for a teddy bear.

Some minutes after, a blushing Nikandros walked up stage and exchanged his ticket for the bear. Laurent was sure he could hear Auguste’s and Damen’s laughs.

“Oh, it would have been better if a girl had won it.” Torveld said and chuckled.

“The second prize is an iPod touch, latest model. This was a donation from the parents association,” People cheered, and Laurent saw Auguste walking towards them. He was still wearing his mask; a phantom of the Opera model, in gold and white, with black music notes on a side.

“Finally, my shift at the stand finished.” He said to Laurent, then smiled at Torveld, “Hey, I didn’t know you guys were friends.”

“We kind of just met today.” Torveld said.

“Lucky winner number 83470, please come claim your prize!” the voice said through the speakers.

“What is the first prize?” Laurent asked.

“I think its concert tickets,” Auguste replied with a shrug. “But I’m not really sure.”

“Finally,” the teacher said, “The first prize this year was a donation from the school. The Charcy directive decided to give out two tickets to see the National Symphony live!” This time, people screamed. Of course everyone would want to go see them.

Laurent enjoyed the National Symphony, but in Charcy it was what everyone talked about. It was what his teachers told him all the time.

_ With your talent, you could make it. _

But he wasn’t sure that what was he wanted. He wasn’t sure if he wanted anything at all. He enjoyed music; he enjoyed the violin and the orchestra. But at fifteen, he had more questions about himself than real answers. And as the days came and new things happened, he was more and more confused about it. Who was he? A musician? A simple student?

A violinist?

The friend? The enemy? The lover?

He didn’t know. He often wondered if it was himself, or if it had been like that for everyone. He wondered if Auguste had had doubts too. But then, wasn’t Auguste always in love with the piano? He had been talking about becoming a composer since they were children, way before their parents died. So, the only thing he knew was that he didn’t know anything.

“Number 2192 please come claim your prize!” the teacher said.

“Oh fuck. That’s me.” Torveld said, staring at his ticket. His eyes had widened.

“What are you waiting for?! Go, go!” Auguste pushed his back and Torveld walked to the stage where he received an envelope. The teacher congratulated him and then the raffle was over.

Too many things happened afterwards. Damen and Nikandros were talking about the bear, Nikandros groaning about what he was supposed to do with it. Auguste joined in conversation, and then Jord and Aimeric were also walking towards them. As well as Kallias, Aden and Halvik.

_ Why is everyone here? _

He didn’t like crowds. He wanted the Carnival to be over. He wanted to go home.

That’s when Torveld pulled on his sleeve.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asked. But he no longer was like before. He seemed serious, perhaps a bit nervous. He pulled Laurent away from the group, and then took off his mask, revealing his face. He then said something that Laurent wasn’t able to hear because music started coming out the speakers again. It was too loud.

“What?” Laurent asked.

Torveld leaned over and whispered into his ear, “I asked if…you would like to go to the concert with me?”  Then pulled away.

He stared at Torveld for a second, and then, as a habit, he looked back to the group. Looking for his brother, trying to think.

Did he want to go to the concert with Torveld?

Then, he saw Damen. And he was staring back at them. Their eyes met, connected for a second. Laurent wasn’t sure what Damen was thinking, but he saw him as he started walking towards them. He thought of Jokaste, of Damen being hurt. He thought of himself playing the violin for Damen, spending time with him. He thought of Damen inviting him to the Carnival only to leave him alone. He thought of Damen telling him they’d all go support him during the gala concert.

How many chances had he had that he had not taken?

How many more was Laurent willing to allow him?

Certainly, not many.

He wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe out of jealousy. Maybe because he was pissed. Because he was fifteen, and most of the time he wasn’t sure what he was doing.

“Yes,” Laurent said, “I’d like to go with you.”

 

***

Torveld and him exchanged phone numbers. The Carnival was almost over, and Torveld had gone find his friends. He had given him one of the tickets, and Laurent was now standing with Auguste’s group of friends.

“I think I’ll go home,” he said to his older brother.

“What? Are you tired?” Auguste asked, and he nodded.

“Plus, I already saw everything. You can stay; you were working on the stands all day.” Laurent said.

“Are you sure? I’m not letting you go home alone…” he looked away from Laurent, “Damen, are you going home soon? Can you give Lo a ride?”

_ Fantastic. _

“Sure.” Damen said, and took off his mask. It was silver and red, and it suited him. It made his eyes seem more intense.

“I have to stay for a bit longer, since I’m part of the Charity committee of the Carnival. I’ll go home in a few hours, okay?”

Laurent rolled his eyes, “Okay, Auguste, I’m not a child.”

“Okay. Damen, drive safely.”

Damen and Laurent walked together out of the school gates and towards his car. An awkward silence standing between them, and that didn’t leave even when they were inside the car and on the road.

“What did Torveld tell you?” Damen asked, after a while. He sounded odd, upset.

_ Are you jealous? _

“Why do you want to know?” replied Laurent.

“Because…you two aren’t friends, or are you?”

“We became friends today, when you and everyone else decided to make a disappearing act on me.”

“I’m…sorry, I was called to one of the hot dogs stands to help a teacher out.” Damen sighed.

“I thought you’d be fine with Jord.”

“Jord was with Aimeric.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Damen.”

“So what did he tell you?” Damen insisted as he drove. They were entering Laurent’s neighborhood.

“He asked me to go to the concert with him. He won the tickets.”

“Did you say yes?”

“I did. I didn’t have any reason not to.”

Damen parked the car in front of Laurent’s house and then looked at him. He was upset. Laurent could feel it. But he enjoyed it.

_ Are you jealous? _

“I hope you have fun.” Damen said.

“We will.” Laurent said, and stepped out the car.

He only had a foot on the door when he heard Damen drive away. Laurent smiled to himself. It felt bittersweet, good one minute and bad the other. As he stepped inside his house, he turned on the lights and took off his mask.

Perhaps he had been playing a different person all day.

Who was he, really?

And why did it feel bad, when Damen had told him to have fun? Why was he expecting him to say something different?

And why Damen had not?

Perhaps, it was the masks’ fault. Perhaps they were all different people that day.


	12. The Anthem of the Heart | Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Vicomtes.  
> I don't have much to say today. I decided to post this chapter now since last time it took me a while to update.  
> I want to thank all of you for the beautiful comments you left in Chapter 11. I was really down and you managed to cheer me up enough to write Chapter 12 in less than two days. Thanks a lot<3 It makes me really happy that you're enjoying the arc.  
> Also thanks to Ellen and Lee. Babes, I really don't know what I'd do without you. 
> 
> Enjoy!<3

**Part III**

**_April_ **

 

He didn’t realize he had stopped breathing.

It was as if everything was paralyzed in time. And nothing else existed, except for him and the music. He had experienced that feeling before, once, when he was much younger. His parents had taken him and Auguste to see the National Symphony Orchestra in the Arles City Hall. Laurent wasn’t older than five years old, and although he couldn’t really understand much of his surroundings, he could remember two things. One of those was his older brother’s face. Auguste must have been around eight years old at the time, and after Chopin’s Winter Wind was over, he was crying. He didn’t make a sound, but Laurent remember how the tears rolled down his cheeks. Millions and millions of tears. The second thing he remembered was _that_ feeling.  It was a déjà vu, of something he had already felt as a child. _Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso_ was the piece that made Laurent play the violin.

As an infant, he didn’t know the name of the song; he didn’t know anything about music. But the melodies that filled his ears also made it to his tiny heart. And then, he was paralyzed. He couldn’t do anything else but listen to the song. He got goose bumps, and a part of him was scared. His world of toys and fantasies was being invaded by the notes of that song. He remembered shivering nonstop for nine minutes until it was over, and then the clapping that overtook the whole theater brought him back to the reality.

That night, he told his parents he wanted to play the violin.

His mother, a virtuoso, taught him the basics. Even when she preferred the piano and composed songs herself, she knew how to play more than three instruments. He remembered her with her long blonde hair, telling him how to grab the violin correctly, how to move his fingers. After that, his parents had hired many violin tutors for him, but he dismissed them all. Laurent had learnt mostly everything on his own. He had come to learn his violin slowly, all through his childhood and teenage years. He had mastered a lot of songs, learnt them by heart, by ear. He could improve and compose his own melodies, although they were a private pleasure that he wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to know. Not even Auguste.

But right at this moment, at this present, even when Laurent was an experienced musician, he was paralyzed again, like if he was five years old. Perhaps it was an effect of the National Symphony Orchestra, something only them could achieve. It was breathtaking, the way they played. Especially that song, _his_ song. The anthem of his heart. He had practiced _Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso_ until he broke his violin’s strings and his fingers had bled. And even when that happened, he changed the strings, bandaged his fingers and played again. It was an addiction, playing becomes everything.

He watched as the soloist moved his fingers quickly, as he smiled at the public watching them. The orchestra never missing a tempo, it was a perfect sync. Charcy’s Juvenile Orchestra could never compete against people like these. They were professionals, and Laurent’s classmates were just simple amateurs.

_I want to play._

His fingers itched, and he couldn’t help but move them with the rhythm against his thigh. He couldn’t help but think that he would play that song differently. This version was more subtle, perhaps gentler that when he played it. The soloist played it as if he was a foreigner stepping into strange land. Laurent played as if he was the owner. He played with arrogance, pedantic, never smiling, never closing his eyes.

He played, feeling the music notes running through his veins. In those moments, he couldn’t tell the difference between the violin and himself. They became one. The violin became a part of him, and his movements were automatic responses product of daily practicing. The joy he felt was indescribable, the pleasure, the bliss. And for nine minutes, nothing else in the world mattered.

As the song ended, Laurent shuddered. He took a long breath and tried to stay very still against the shivering of his body. There was a moment of silence, where everyone in the theater allowed themselves to breathe once more, and then the applause that filled his ears.

“That was amazing,” Torveld whispered next to him.

Laurent nodded and swallowed. He couldn’t find words.

“It…makes me want to go home and play non-stop,” Torveld turned to look at him and smiled. “When you see an orchestra live…do you ever imagine how it’d be? I mean, to be part of it. To play with them, in a hall like this.”

Laurent thought about the question. He did picture himself playing, always differently than the version he was listening to. He had his own style. But he couldn’t see himself playing for such a big orchestra. Even though he respected them, he didn’t admire them. What had made him fall in love with music wasn’t someone’s interpretation, it was the song itself. The soloist was good, and he played Camille Saint Saëns like he had to, but Laurent liked his own version better. He knew he could make it if he wanted, as everyone always told him. He knew he had the level, the talent, the quality.

But what for?

Laurent didn’t play the violin because he had to, but because he wanted to. What much could change, if he pursued a music career like that? Would he end up hating it? Or would the notes become poison, the addiction killing him in an instant? He didn’t know. Music, to him, was a double edged sword.

It can give you life, but it can also take it away.

To be a good musician, you had to lose things. You had to feel things to an extreme.

“To get what you want, _you have to know exactly how much you are willing to give up.”_

Was he willing to give up something, to become a great violinist? An exceptional member of the National Symphony?

“Not much,” Laurent said. “Do you want to be in an orchestra in the future?”

“Mmm…no. I would like to continue with the music, if possible. But I wouldn’t aim for the National Symphony, or anything similar.” Torveld said.

Laurent was going to add something else, but then the next song started. The last song of the concert, Sarasate’s _Caprice basque_. An outstanding song composed for violin.

The déjà vu feeling didn’t come back this time.

 

***

As they walked out of the theater, Laurent couldn’t help but look up at the sky. It was a starry night. It was around ten, the concert had been almost four hours long.  He was always looking up at the sky, for some reason. It was the only thing in his life that wasn’t constantly changing. And when he felt anxious, it reassured him. There’s always the sky. There’s always the stars.

“Did you enjoy it?” Torveld asked as they walked to his car. If something wanted Laurent was to be able to drive, and maybe have his own car. He was tired of depending on people older than him, but Auguste wouldn’t begin teaching him until he had turned sixteen.

_Damn Auguste._

“I did,” Laurent said. And he had, really. It was the first time he hung out with someone who wasn’t his older brother or one of his friends. But it had been okay. And he remembered Damen’s words the last time they had spoken.

_“I hope you have fun.”_

Ever since that day in March, they hadn’t really talked. Damen had been avoiding him, and he was too proud to be the first one to make the move. He was done with it. Plus, April had come along with a wave of exams, final projects and late night practices. Auguste was busy with his song, and also applying to music conservatories and colleges. Honestly, the only people who Laurent had had the time to talk to during these past weeks were Jord and Torveld.

He didn’t want to be bothered by it, but he very much was.

As Torveld drove to Laurent’s house, they chatted about the concert, and the exams, and the gala concert that was sooner than they wanted it to be. Torveld was an easy distraction from everything that was happening inside of Laurent, an interruption from all the stress and mixed emotions he didn’t know what to do with. He was glad for that.

“Here we are,” Torveld said as he parked in front of the house. Lights were still on, so Auguste was probably waiting for him. He had insisted a hundred and seventy times for him to drive both Laurent and his friend to the concert, and then pick them up.

_“I am no longer a child.” Laurent said._

_“I know, I’m not saying you are. I was just offering—“_

_“I said no.”_

_“God, Laurent, can you stop being so stubborn?” Auguste sighed in frustration, “You’re only fifteen, you never really leave the house unless it’s for school and now you want to go out and—“_

_“It’s only for a damn concert, Auguste, with someone from Charcy. And now you also want to babysit me.”_

_“It’s not babysitting!”_

_“Then what is it?” Laurent crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. He was angry. Both of them were. They rarely ever had fights, but lately, it seemed it was all they could do.  “You think I can’t take care of myself, like if I was just naïve.”_

_“That’s not what I meant, okay?  I know you can take care of yourself, I just…I worry! I can’t just not worry, I promised them I’d take care of you and that’s what I’ve been trying to do. I…forget it. Just. Forget it. Try to come home before eleven, alright?”_

He looked at the house and wondered if his brother would still be mad at him. It was true that Laurent had been stubborn. The least he wanted to do was to be another problem for Auguste. Somehow, even after everything they had gone through; Auguste was still kind and joyful. And most of the fights were always Laurent’s fault.

Lately, he didn’t feel like himself at all.

Everything kept changing, one day he felt things and the next day he’d feel the opposite. He wanted to know why. He wanted to...

“Laurent?”

He turned his gaze back to Torveld, who was looking at him rather worried. “You alright?”

“Yes. I…was just thinking.” Laurent said. “Did you say something?”

“I said that…I was very happy when you agreed to go to the concert with me. Thank you.” Then, Torveld reached for his hand.

He flinched, but fought the urge remove his hand. And he stared at them. Torveld’s hand was warm, but it felt so different from when Damen touched him. His heart didn’t speed up and his stomach didn’t drop. He didn’t feel anything but the warmth of his hand.

“You know…I’ve always wanted to tell you…But, now the year’s ending, and on September I won’t come back to Charcy, so I need to tell you now.” Torveld said. He didn’t look uneasy, like that day in the Carnival when he had invited him to the concert. He looked confident.

What had changed?

“I like you, Laurent.” He said, “I’ve liked you for a very long time. You’ve always been reserved and I never saw a chance to reach out to you. But I didn’t want to leave Charcy without telling you this first.”

“I—“

“You don’t have to say anything. I know my feelings are one sided.” Torveld smiled. It wasn’t a sad smile, he didn’t look sad at all. Laurent couldn’t understand how that could be.

“You…said you’re leaving Charcy. Are you moving away?” Laurent asked. It was all he was capable of.

“I applied for an exchange program, so I’ll finish high school in a music school in Patras.” He explained, “It is possible we won’t see each other again after the closing ceremony.”

“Oh. Then, I wish you luck.” Laurent said.

“Thanks,” Torveld said and grinned. He let go off Laurent’s hand and ran a hand through his hair.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Don’t you feel bad that I don’t share your feelings?” Laurent asked carefully.

“Mmm…No.” Torveld answered.

“Why not?”

“Well…liking someone is a nice feeling. I…I’m just happy that I could share a few moments with you before I have to leave.”

He couldn’t possibly understand.

Damen made his heart ache. He knew his feelings were probably not shared. But it hurt him.

It hurt him deeply.

He thought that liking Damen was probably the worst thing that has ever happened to him.

They exchanged a goodbye, and then Laurent was out of the car and stepping into his house. He closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment.

It hurt.

His chest hurt.

“Laurent?” his brother’s voice called, “Is that you?”

Laurent walked into the living room, where Auguste was sitting on his piano. His hair was a mess; it seemed more like a birds nest than anything else. There were pencils and pens on top of the piano, and he was surrounded by several music sheets. Some blank, some already written. This was how his brother spent his nights ever since he got the idea of composing that song.

“Hey,” Auguste smiled when he saw him, “How was the concert?”

“It was okay,” Laurent managed to say against the knot in his throat.

“Listen…I…I’m sorry about our fight earlier. I know you aren’t a kid anymore, but…I just worry.” Auguste whispered.

That helped him relax. It soothed the pain on his chest a little. At least, Auguste and him were okay.

“It’s fine. I realized I was being obstinate.” Laurent said, “How’s the song going?”

“I’m glad you asked! Because, oh, brother, this song….” Auguste inhaled and then chuckled, “Do you want to listen?”

Laurent nodded and then Auguste started to play. It was a soft song, composed of very simple notes. It was an easy arrangement, contrary to the other pieces Auguste had composed before. The whole melody wasn’t about technique, but about feelings. It wasn’t about the difficulty, but of the emotions it touched inside of you. And Laurent closed his eyes.  It felt sad…but sweet. Melancholic. His brother was such a good composer, a good pianist. But even so, the song needed something. Something was missing.

“Do you have the lyrics yet?” Laurent asked, and opened his eyes.

“Not yet, I was planning to work with that tomorrow at school. With everyone.” Auguste said and bit his lip, “You don’t like it?”

“No,” Laurent said, surprised. “I do like it very much, but…”

“Something’s missing?”

Laurent nodded again. He looked around, and grabbed his violin case. He opened it, and took it out.

“Let me see the notes,” he said, and walked over to stand next to Auguste. “I think…the problem is that, the same notes keep repeating here,” He circled with a pencil. “And it turns very linear. If it’s made for orchestra, maybe you should try changing it for a solo, and then continue with the next part.”

“I see…yes, I understand what you mean,” Auguste nodded, “Can you play the first section, please? And when you get to that part, improvise.”

“Improvise?” Laurent raised an eyebrow, “How do you expect me to—“

“Just…play whatever you feel, play like you knew the next notes, the next verse.” His brother said, “You can do it, Lo. _Lively and brightly_.”

Laurent sighed, and positioned his violin on his shoulder. He straightened his back and inhaled before playing. He played the song differently, like he always did. He played it like he owned it, like he was the one composing it. He ate notes and skipped parts and fixed his mistakes with new notes of his own. He played the way he was feeling, he played the pain in his chest and Torveld’s confession. He played the melancholy and his constant state of confusion. Hoping it was enough, hoping he could help. Letting out his stress, draining the emotions he wasn’t able to swallow down anymore.

To be a good musician, you had to lose things. You had to feel things to an extreme. But you also had to tell your own story. To be a good musician, there were things you needed to tell.

_Lively and Brightly._

 

***

Laurent decided that he didn’t like April. In fact, he hated it. Exams and practice had taken over his life, to the point that he often forgot to eat and went to bed past two in the morning. He couldn’t remember what it was to sit down and finish a book or playing the violin without his fingers bleeding.

Orchestra practice was over, finally. They had played Waltz no. 2 at least fifteen times in a row before Professor Guillaume decided it was enough. It’s not that they weren’t used to it, but one could so much with the stress of exams over you. It was sure that for the nationals, he’d make them play until they couldn’t remember their names.

But that was the price to pay for being the best Juvenile orchestra in the whole state.

Laurent sat down on his chair again and pulled out a small kit from his bag. It had a miniature size bottle of alcohol, cream and bandages. Bandaging his fingers was something that took time, but he saw the chance to let himself breathe and relax before having to go practice with his brother’s group. It was probable they wouldn’t need them until the lyrics were ready, but still, had to be there with the others.

He cleaned the small cuts on his fingertips, product of the three hours of practice, hissing at the pain and then applying a medical gel. This would get him through the pain until he could get home.

He was alone in the music room again. The sun was already setting, and he was beyond exhausted. At least, there were only a few finals, and then the third term would begin. The school year was going faster than he thought. Auguste was going to graduate in a few months, along with Nikandros and Damen. Perhaps, he’d miss them, after all. They had been already there when he had started high school. The fact that they’d be gone but he’d have to remain left him feeling odd, almost sad.

As he finished bandaging his left hand, he bit the end of it and started with his right one, which had the most damage. He couldn’t help but to jump when a voice startled him.

“What’s wrong with your fingers?”

His heart was beating fast, and he looked up to see Damen, standing over him. He wasn’t smiling. Now, he never really smiled at him. He’d always turn his face and look somewhere else.

_“I hope you have fun.”_

_“We will.”_

Laurent held up his right hand for Damen to see the bleeding cuts, the broken nails and swollen skin. The expression on his face changed, he frowned and took Laurent’s hand in his.

“I’m guessing this is one of the bad sides of being a musician.”

“You guessed right,” Laurent said, “You’re talking to me again. To what do I owe the honor?”

Damen sighed before answering, “Auguste’s waiting for you. Apparently Aimeric’s trying to steal your solo.”

“And he thinks Auguste will let him?” Laurent said with sarcasm.

“I know. I don’t think so either, but he’s trying to convince him and Professor Guillaume, too.” Damen said.

“Tell Auguste I’ll be there soon.” Said Laurent and tried to pull his hand back, but Damen caught his wrist in time.

Laurent looked up again to meet his eyes, they were softer than before. However, he could still tell Damen was upset.

“Let me help you,” Damen said, finally.

When Laurent didn’t respond, Damen sat on a chair next to him and took a cotton ball and the alcohol. He watched as how, very gently, Damen cleaned the blood off the cuts. It was so intimately personal, something not even Auguste had ever done for him. Not because he hadn’t offered, but because Laurent preferred to do it himself.

“How was it?” Damen asked after a while, “The concert.”

It took him a minute to find his voice again. He was absorbed by the careful movement of Damen’s hands.

“It was good,” he said. “We had _fun_.”

Deep brown eyes met his, and they held each other’s gaze for what seemed an eternity, until Damen spoke up again, “I know I was kind of an asshole.” He admitted.

“Kind of? You’ve been avoiding me for weeks.”

“I was pissed.” Damen sighed and started to wrap Laurent’s fingers in bandages.

“I noticed.”

“Torveld said he likes me,” Laurent said. He wasn’t sure why he had said that. Perhaps, he just wanted a reaction. He wasn’t used to Damen being that cold to him. It was eating up his nerves.

“And what did you say?” Damen asked, rubbing over his bandaged knuckles. His heart flipped over itself several times.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I see,” Damen pulled his own hand away, “It’s done.”

It wasn’t right.

It still wasn’t right.

But, what could he say? How could he make the real Damen come back?

“Damen—at the Carnival…”

“Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

Damen got up and walked out of the music classroom, never giving Laurent a chance to meet his eyes.

He had screwed up. Again.

Laurent sighed, and looked down at his right hand. “I like you.” He whispered to the empty classroom.

 

***

“What do you mean Aimeric’s right?” Laurent asked. It was unbelievable. He kept looking from his brother, to the Professor like it was some type of bad joke.

“There’s nothing that forbids Auguste from making an audition for the solo, Laurent. It’s what’s fair.” Professor Guillaume said, “This isn’t the orchestra. No one has gained a place here yet. If anyone wants to try out for the solo, then we have to let them.”

“Auguste wrote that solo for me.” He said. But he really wanted to say, _‘I wrote that solo myself’_ because technically, he had. Laurent had improvised because Auguste had asked, and then his brother had written out everything on the score.

It was his solo. He wasn’t willing to give it up to a mediocre violinist like Aimeric du Fortaine.

“Look, if you’re sure you can play the solo better than any other violinist here, then do the audition. It wouldn’t mean anything, or will it? I have to give everyone a chance.”

“I don’t have to prove myself to anyone here. You spend your time telling me how my level is superior, how I should apply to every music school in the country and become a famous violinist to tell me that I have to audition to a solo that was mine from the beginning only because a mediocre, immature boy who calls himself a musician sheds a tear of injustice at your feet.”

“Laurent,” Auguste threatened, “You can’t talk to a teacher like that.”

“Well I just did, Auguste, like you gave out my solo. See? We continue to disappoint each other.”

“Laurent!”

“Boys! Boys, calm down. Both of you.” The Professor said, “It wasn’t Auguste’s decision, Laurent. It was mine, as the tutor of the project. If you continue with that attitude, I’ll have to consider not letting you participate anymore.” He stared at Laurent. It was a firm stare, one he would have accepted from his father, perhaps. But not from a teacher.

Not from anyone.

“Then don’t. I don’t have time for this anyway.” Laurent said and grabbed his violin case.

“Lo, please…” Auguste begged, “I won’t finish this song without you.”

“Fuck off, Auguste.”

“Please. You promised you’d help me.”

Laurent rolled his eyes and sighed, before turning to look at his brother. They would do anything for each other. Laurent only had Auguste, and Auguste only had him. They were orphans, and musicians.

“Fine,” he said, “I’ll do the damn audition.”

 

***

He thought he could go home.

Scream into a pillow, have a cup of tea, imagine how to explicitly murder someone.

That was when Aimeric had called out his name while he was leaving the school. He stopped on his feet and turned around. He was sure his head would explode sooner or later.

“What now, Aimeric?”

“Will you do the audition?” He asked, holding his violin case tightly.

“Yes.”

“I thought your pride wouldn’t let you,” Aimeric said.

“If this is what you want to talk about, then I’ll go.”

Aimeric laughed disbelievingly. It was a mocking sound. “You don’t understand it, do you? You don’t have to make an effort, you just have to play a vulgar Chopin ballade and all the music conservatories will spread their legs to have you. And…yet, you throw it all away. You don’t even want to pursue a music career. I don’t know why you won’t give out the solo.”

“Your lack of talent is not of my concern, Aimeric. You should discuss that with your parents. I mean, if they even know you came out of the womb. Being the fourth son, I wonder how many names they call you before guessing right.” Laurent said.

He didn’t seem particularly unbothered. That’s how much his parents cared for him, “Not everyone can have the golden pianist for a brother,” Aimeric said.

“Jealous, aren’t you? Doesn’t suit your pretty face, though. I bet Jord notices it too. I bet he finds it disgusting.”

Aimeric didn’t respond. His eyes were widening, and his breathing had changed. It was like seeing him recover from a fatal blow, but Laurent hadn’t touched him at all. At least, not physically. What he had touched was something deep inside Aimeric’s heart. The wrecking feeling of having a crush on someone who doesn’t seem to notice you. The sickening feeling of the unrequited, one-sided wish he tried to bury deep inside some black corner of his own heart every day. Laurent saw in Aimeric a part of himself, and he didn’t like it. He despised him.

“Do you really think no one notices? Pretty little Aimeric, the act of throwing yourself at him like a bitch in heat isn’t the definition of discrete.”

“Fuck you, Laurent.” He spat, but Laurent could see the shine of tears in Aimeric’s eyes. Before he could say anything else, Aimeric was running away from him.

It reminded him of a mirror.

He felt, somehow, as if he was hurting himself.

 

***

The days went by, and Auguste’s song started to take shape. It sounded more like a real song and not just a bunch of melodies merged together. The lyrics flowed, and the chorus, lead by Jord, made it sound perfect.

The music room was a vision of red and blue, regular and music students helping each other and laughing together. That was a rarity in Charcy. Laurent believed his brother was truly changing the whole school. The exams were officially over, which gave them more free time to work on Auguste’s project, but it also meant spending more time with people Laurent didn’t really want to see. Things had been tense between him and his brother, ever since the solo issue. But also, they had been tense with Damen, and Jord, who had seen Aimeric run off the night Laurent had insulted him after class. So, he wasn’t really enjoying it, anymore.

Perhaps it would be better if he quit.

“Erasmus,” Auguste said, “Do you think you can sing the first line of the second verse on your own? Your voice would be a great lead.”

Erasmus, who was a second year regular student Kallias had brought along, blushed in response. “Yes,” he said, “I’ll do it.” He had the personality of a scared mouse, but the voice of tenor. At first, no one knew why he was there. The confusion lasted thirty seconds, until Erasmus had started to sing. He was part of the gardening club, and Laurent wondered why while having that voice, he wasn’t a music student.

“Perfect, then, how about we take a break? Let’s take fifteen minutes.” Auguste said. People started stretching, chattering and putting down their instruments. Laurent put down his violin and slided out of the room without anyone noticing.  

It was around three, and the halls were empty. The sound of his footsteps echoed on the floor. He walked to a vending machine in the end of the hall, next to an opened window that let in the cool wind of the afternoon. Soon, April would be gone, and with it, the colors. The green of the leaves and the sky of the blue, the yellow lemons in the tree of his backyard, and the orange sunsets. May was rather a gray month due to the intense downpours. He leaned on the window and sipped his iced tea quietly.

“Hello, _Vicomte_ ”

Laurent looked down from the sky to look at Damen, standing in front of him, inserting a dollar into the vending machine. He pressed a button and then picked up a bottle of lemonade.

“Hello,” Laurent said.

Damen opened his drink and stood next to Laurent, “What are you watching so intensely?”

“The sky,” he replied.

“You’re always looking up at the sky,” Damen said, “Why is that?”

Laurent shrugged. “It calms me down.”

“How are your fingers?”

Holding them up for him to see, Laurent said, “They’re fine.”

Damen nodded, and then sighed, “I don’t want to be mad at you anymore. It’s exhausting. It’s easier to smile.”

Saying nothing, Laurent sipped his drink again. He surely didn’t want to fight with Damen anymore. The tension he had accumulated that month was unbearable.

“In Japanese, the sky is called ‘ _sora_ ,” Laurent said, looking at Damen. His eyes were no longer upset, but warm. Curious, cautious, but always noble. He continued, “It’s also translation for emptiness, voids, and hollow. But also, exceptional things that go beyond one’s daily experiences. It represents spirit, power, and the ability to think.”

“So, you’re like the sky, then?” Damen asked.

“I’d say I’m more of a void.”

Smiling, Damen said, “I beg to differ.”

“I don’t like Torveld.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“He told me. That you rejected him.”

“So you trust a stranger’s word more than mine?”

“I never said that.”

“Well that’s what I understood.”

Damen sighed, “Do we have to keep fighting?”

“I don’t even know why you care so much,” Laurent whispered.

“Do you want an honest answer?” Damen whispered back. Laurent nodded.

Silence. And then, Damen moved swiftly on. “Tell me if you’re uncomfortable.”

_What?_

He didn’t have enough time to react. His whole body was paralyzed. The déjà vu was back again. The overwhelming feeling that came from listening to the National Symphony wasn’t compared to what he felt when Damen touched him. He felt dizzy, and lost, and confused, and tense and a part of him wanted to step back, but the other side of his mind had been waiting for this to happen for a very long time.

Damen cupped his face easily, Laurent feeling the pulse of his heart through his whole body, hammering in his ears, contracting his stomach. He felt as if a fog clouded his mind, blurred his thoughts, and he couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t Damen’s hand on his cheek. He leaned over carefully, slowly, giving Laurent the option to push him away. But he didn’t. He couldn’t move. He was only aware of Damen’s face closer to his, the air leaving his slightly parted lips.

_How will it feel?_

_What does he taste like?_

His mind, always one step ahead, giving him an image of what could come next. A dream, or a fantasy, although Damen was unpredictable.

But it wasn’t more than that. A mere brush. A dream or a fantasy. Because a couple seconds after, a voice interrupted. An alarm returning them back to reality. Damen stepped away and turned around, giving Laurent his back. He saw then, in the middle of the hall, Nikandros standing and watching them. He was flushing, clearly embarrassed for interrupting their scene.

“I—I’m sorry…the break is over...” he managed to say before walking away in the direction of the music room.

Laurent had never hated Nikandros that much in his life.

“We should go back,” Damen said, his cheeks red.

“Yes, let’s go back.”

Disappointment sank in like a stone. He had been close. They had been close. He could still feel it in his lips, the illusion of a kiss that never happened. Their noses brushing and the air between them warm with tension. He could still feel the anticipation pulsing in his blood.

Laurent had never been kissed before. And that didn’t change that day.

But at least, he had gained back Damen’s smiles and joyful looks.

That was something.

 

***

“Lo, dinner is ready.”  Auguste said softly, and touched his shoulder. “Laurent? Are you alright?”

“I’m not hungry,” he murmured.

“I made you a chicken sandwich,” His brother said, and sat on the bed next to him.

“I really don’t want anything.”

“Not even a cup of tea?”

“No,” Laurent sighed.

He was lying on his bed, holding his pillow. He hadn’t even bothered in changing off his uniform. He was mentally exhausted. The almost-kiss had been repeating over and over no matter how much he tried to stop his mind from torturing him.

Over thinking was a never-ending nightmare.

“Are you mad at me?” Auguste asked, biting his bottom lip.

“Why would I be?” Laurent raised an eyebrow.

Auguste shrugged, “I just…we’ve been…fighting a lot and…we haven’t really talked so…”

“I’m not mad at you. I’m just tired.”

“Did something happen at school?” he paused, then, “Maybe with Damen?”

Laurent didn’t need to lie this time, “Nothing happened.” He had to bite his tongue to avoid the disdain.

“Okay, if you say so.” Auguste brushed away the hair off Laurent’s face and got up, “I’ll leave you be. I’ll put your food in the microwave, in case you get hungry later.”

When his brother was gone, Laurent rolled on his back and sighed. His whole mind was one big great mess. What if the kiss had happened? Would it be less confusing, or just the opposite?

Why did Damen want to kiss him?

_“I don’t even know why you care so much.”_

_“Do you want an honest answer?”_

Was the kiss an answer? He felt as if it was more like a question. But what was Damen asking him?

And what would Laurent respond?

If their lips had touched for at least a second, then what would have happened next? What was the next line, the next paragraph, the next chapter? He needed to know. He wanted to know if it was the starting of a dialogue, or the end of it.

He put the pillow over his head and closed his eyes. But then…what if it was just a test?

What if Damen was testing him? Toying with him?

What if Laurent was only a replacement? Blonde hair, blue eyes, a sharp tongue – Damen clearly had a type.

He had spent weeks ignoring him, pissed at him over Torveld. And then, suddenly, he was back. Smiling, talking to him like if nothing had happened.

Trying to kiss him.

What were the right questions? The right choices?

He took the pillow away and touched his lips. He wanted to kiss him. But the chance had passed. Nikandros had ruined it.

He truly hated April. And he couldn’t wait for it to end.


	13. The Anthem of the Heart | Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday, guys!  
> Here's a new chapter for you, and right on time!  
> Thanks for all of your beautiful comments, they make my days<3  
> As always, thanks to Ellen and Lee for working on this with me so passionately.
> 
> Enjoy!!<3

**Part IV**

**_May_ **

 

Laurent kept repeating the notes in his head.

The gala concert was free to the public, and people could arrive and leave whenever. But as the time passed and musicians played, more people arrived. Like a plague, spreading through Arles, the music was attracting people. And between them were his brother, Nikandros, Jord and Damen. Sitting on the fifth row in the middle section, chatting quietly and laughing between the songs.

Laurent wasn't the type to get nervous before a performance, but that was before April. Before Damen had tried to kiss him. Now, his stomach was tied in knots.

So, he kept repeating the notes inside his head, quietly humming to the Waltz, perhaps as a method of concentration. Or just to avoid the anxiety. He wanted to play, but at the same time he didn’t. And it was a stupid thought, a stupid feeling, and he hated himself for being so pathetic. But he couldn't help it.

He told himself that Shostakovich and Prokofiev and Brahms didn't feel nervous while playing their pieces. They were confident, and he must be too.

He wanted to impress Damen. He had to play his best.

Damen. Damen. Damen.

It was always about Damen.

Since the almost-kiss, things had gone back to how they were before the Torveld thing. And it was frustrating, because for a second, Laurent thought they had taken another step, but apparently they had not. They were in the same point as before.

In an unwitting move, he touched his lips again. He remembered Damen leaning over him, his soft voice.

_“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable.”_

He remembered how it felt, when their lips brushed.

The wave of heat that hit him in that moment was too much for him. It was simply too much. Embarrassed, he walked to the bathroom quickly, avoiding anyone that could get on his way. He splashed water on his red face and told himself to to regain control.

That’s when he heard it. The coughing and splattering of someone vomiting. He was going to step out the bathroom when Aimeric walked out of a stall. He looked pale, almost green, and was wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

When he looked at Laurent, he stopped. Like he had been hit. And he looked pale and nauseated. His encounters with Aimeric always left a bitter taste in his mouth, like rot.

Laurent watched him as he opened the faucet and cleaned his mouth with water in silence. Then, he couldn’t help but ask, “You throw up before a gala concert and you think you could handle the stress of a solo?”

“Leave me alone, Laurent.” Aimeric said, but his voice broke midway. He sounded anxious, perhaps panicked.

“I did that once and you went behind my back crying crocodile tears to Professor Guillaume to steal my solo. Not a mistake I’d make again.”

“Everyone gets nervous before a performance.” Aimeric said.

“I don’t see anyone else here bringing back their lunch.” Laurent shrugged. “You’re the only one who’s being unprofessional.”

“I’m not being unprofessional! You’re just being a cold-blooded asshole.” Aimeric said, his hands clenching into fists, “I don’t understand how you and Auguste can be related.”

“First it was Jord, then my brother. I wonder who’s next on your list.”

“You should quit the act soon, Laurent. Trailing around your brother’s best friend is pathetic.” Said Aimeric, closing the faucet. He looked up to meet Laurent’s eyes on the mirror.

“At least I don’t stalk him from afar.” Laurent said, but Aimeric seemed unbothered. His heart was beating fast. Why did Aimeric know about him and Damen?

“The walls speak, you know? It’s not a secret in Charcy that you have the hots for him. But let me tell you something,” Aimeric said, and walked towards him. Only stopping when they were face to face. “You’re cold, manipulative, and a jerk. And people get tired of being hurt. One day, you will end up alone.”

This was revenge.

He wanted to break Aimeric’s pretty face.

“Your stupid prediction doesn’t mean anything, second violinist.”

“You say that now. But I hope I can be there to watch you when you finally fall off your pedestal.” Aimeric walked past him and towards the door, “And also, Jord and I…we’re…dating now.” Then, “You lost.” And finally, he left.

Laurent stood there for a minute, trying to control his own breathing. He hated him. He hated Aimeric.

He hated that for a minute there, Aimeric had been able to see through him.

He hated the fact that he feared Aimeric was right.

 

***

The rage didn’t leave.

Not even when they had to take their positions on stage, ready to play. The theatre was quiet, waiting for them to start. Professor Guillaume gave them a reassuring smile and Laurent gripped his bow tightly.

He was the first violinist. The best musician in the strings section. And this was his song.

As soon as the Professor gave the signal, they started. Torveld was the first one to play with his saxophone. Soft, _allegro poco moderato_. He counted the tempo inside his mind, and then he started. His hands moving before his mind could give the order. Fingers stinging with the memory of the pain they suffered as he slipped them on the strings. He straightened his back and lifted his chin, and moved the bow firmly but with delicacy. Waltz were songs you were supposed to play slowly, yet happily. Songs that had to be beautiful yet powerful. They were meant to be for people to dance to. Swaying melodies that were played in ballrooms for the Kings and Queens to enjoy.

 _Waltz No. 2_ was short, not even making it to four full minutes. But they had practiced so much, Laurent had practiced until he had callouses in both hands and it ached to grab a pencil in class. And Damen had bandaged his hands.

Damen, who was in the public watching them, knew better than anyone how much effort Laurent had put into the song. Even if Aimeric believed he didn’t need to practice due to his natural abilities, he still stayed up late moving his fingers on the strings of his violin. He still studied the music sheets until he learnt them perfectly. He could perfectly tell the chords from beginning to end and vice versa.

So he wouldn’t let anyone, much less a second violinist, outshine him. He wouldn’t let Aimeric get the last word. He could know about him and Damen, and he could date Jord. But he could never have what was Laurent’s from the beginning of his story. Not the solo, not the position in the orchestra, or the talent that emanated from him like an aura.

He looked around the theatre, eyes immediately falling on Damen, who seemed to be in awe. Auguste next to him, smiling, his eyes shining. Laurent looked away. And felt for the first time an odd desire he had not felt in a long time. It wasn’t the usual arrogance, it wasn’t selfishness either. But, as he looked as his brother, as he looked at Damen and his friends, he thought he didn’t want to play for them, anymore. At least not that day.

He didn’t want to  play for Professor Guillaume, or Auguste, or even Damen. After spending so many days playing songs to him, hoping that somehow they’d do the rest. After spending the last months working on Auguste’s song and practicing for this gala concert everyone expected.

He didn’t want to play for them, he didn’t care for any of that.

For the first time in so long, he had the infinite desire of wanting to play forever. But for himself. He wanted to play Shostakovich for himself, because he wanted to. He wanted to play one of his favorite Waltzes, he wanted people to look at him.

And he felt it, when his sound changed.

And the public noticed too.

The sound of his music, that was correct, technically perfect, but lifeless, started to take color. His sound, which had been an empty echo, a repetition of a repetition, started to have emotion. And as the first violin, the leader of the whole song, he made the sound of his classmates change too. The whole orchestra was taking another path, it was painting a picture for the public. It was telling a story.

And it was Laurent’s.

He wanted to play for himself, because he liked music. And he didn’t want anyone else to have it. Perhaps, all musicians were like that. They were proud and superb and conceited. Full of themselves, always searching for the applause. But maybe that was the way it had to be. Because musicians were the ones to shape the songs. They brought them back to life from a piece of paper. They gave them power and sentiment and _life_ . Laurent believed he was a void, but maybe there was the small chance that Damen had been right. Maybe he was like the sky. Like _sora_.

Open, vast, endless.

Out of the ordinary.

And maybe Auguste was right too.

The heart had a melody. It had an anthem. And that was the difference between musicians and the rest of the world. That was the small part that defined you, that made you part of the musical world or denied you out of it. Whatever it was that you had inside, the song that your heart played, the way that you could make the whole world listen to you. That was what made you excel from the rest of the people. Music.

Music was born with you.

Music was a double edged sword, it had the power to save you or destroy you. And even when he was confused, and he didn’t understand himself, and he resented the second violinist sitting next to him, he couldn’t help but admit it. Finally.

He loved music.

He didn’t want anything or anyone to ruin it for him.

_You’re smiling._

_It is called joy, Laurent, what you’re feeling._

So he played the last chord, and the song ended. The hall erupting in applause. He felt the drops of sweat on his forehead, and his uneven breath. But he couldn’t stop smiling. He lowered his violin, and heard the voices of his brother and his friends screaming his name.

And the rage left.

It left, leaving only the adrenaline and satisfaction that was life changing. The view of a public that was unique, like no other, and a joy that was more than he could allow himself. More than he could contain.

A joy like a blue sky.

Open, vast, endless.

And out of the ordinary.

 

***

May was better than April.

Not only the stress was gone but also it brought good news with it.

A few days after the gala concert, Auguste got a letter in the mail. An admission letter from the Arles Music Conservatory.

He had been accepted for the composing program starting in September. He was so happy he cried while reading it, although it was more of a weird sound between a cry and a laugh, and he was shivering with excitement.

Laurent felt so proud of his brother he decided to buy him a gift. It was a leather briefcase with a piano keyboard on the front face.

Auguste cried some more when he opened it.

 

***

Laurent succeeded the audition.

It happened just as predicted. Professor Guillaume gathered Auguste’s Project Group in Charcy’s auditory, and had opted for the democracy he claimed to love and support like a politician.

The rules were easy. Both Aimeric and Laurent had to  play the solo, one after another, and the one who gained more applause from their classmates was the winner.

They threw a penny, and Aimeric played first.  He went up stage and stood in the middle while facing everyone. His interpretation wasn´t bad, as much as Laurent wished it was. It was good, following the right notes and a perfect technique. He moved his bow with elegancy, but perhaps too slowly. And the sound, even when pretty, didn’t stand out. Aimeric played the solo like background music, like an accompanist, like a second violinist.

And that costed him the audition.

Laurent wrote the solo himself, so he knew how to play it. It could be tricky, with sharp notes and constantly changing rhythms. It wasn’t a soft, slow solo for orchestra. It was a wild melody that didn’t seem to be made for violin. It kept the sentiment of the melancholic song Auguste had created, but it also added a twist of Laurent’s mind to it too.

So it really wasn’t a surprise when the applause came louder after Laurent had finished. It wasn’t a surprise either when Aimeric threw a tantrum, and lucky for him, Jord was there comforting him. Laurent couldn’t help but search for Nikandros’s expression in the crow, but he was already gone.

What was a surprise was when Damen approached him, after. The auditory was almost empty except for them and a few students.

Ever since the almost-kiss they hadn’t been left alone together. For one reason or another, someone always interrupted. It felt like if they shared a secret.

Laurent was putting his violin back in its case when Damen tapped on his shoulder. He turned around and was met with a grin.

“Congrats on winning the solo,” Damen said.

“I would thank you, but I think everyone knew who would win from the beginning,” Laurent replied.

“Tu es un peu arrogant, n’est pas?” Damen said, switching to French.

_A bit arrogant, aren’t you?_

“La modestie,” said Laurent in a whisper, “n’est pas dans mon vocabulaire.”

_Modesty isn’t in my vocabulary._

“Oui, je peux voir ça.”  Damen chuckled, and then he rubbed his neck, like he often did when he was nervous or doubtful. He switched to english again, “Your birthday is soon, isn’t it?”

Laurent nodded, “Yes, why?”

“Because…I was thinking maybe we could…do something. I mean, I know Auguste won’t let me…but I just…I mean, maybe we all could do something that day. Pizza and games ? We can rent horror movies and watch them all night. Like a stay over thing. I mean, only if you want because I—”

“Damen,” Laurent interrupted him.  He wanted to chuckle. It was so obvious Damen was nervous and that he had been planning a good speech that suddenly turned out very wrong, in a mess of fast blurted words. And he liked it, that honest, shameless part of him.

“Yes ?” Damen blinked.

“Yes,” Laurent nodded and smiled sincerely, shyly, “I would like that.”

He wondered if there was a part of Damen he couldn’t like.

 

***

May also came with the rain.

Laurent woke up to the sound of it, and the smell of humidity that seeped through the window.  He opened his eyes slowly, and made a small sound of pleasure as he stretched. It was early, perhaps earlier than he would usually wake up on a Saturday. He had a hand on his stomach, pulling on the gray jumper he had worn to bed. The other hand, resting on his forehead, like a dramatic pose of a play. It had been a long time since he had slept that well. With pleasant dreams full of warm colors and melodies. The third term was beginning. And soon, he’d be out of school again. Another year had passed, and he was glad it would be over soon. It had been stressful, and complex. He felt like he needed a break.

It was amazing how his mind wandered from thought to thought. People, supposedly, didn’t think of anything while in their somnolence. But it seemed like he could never stop thinking. His mind, and invincible machine.

The sound of the rain was soothing, like a lullaby. He wondered, in his drowsiness, what was so great about sunshine. He hated hot days and summer. He would rather have rainy, cold days where he could stay in bed, have a cup of tea and read.

Days like this one.

He heard the door open, and immediately closed his eyes again. A few seconds later, he could feel Auguste’s breath on his ear.

Laurent still didn’t understand why his brother loved to slide in his bed like that, out of nowhere.

“Wake up,” Auguste whispered.

“No.”

“Don’t make me tickle you,” he threatened.

Laurent was suddenly completely awake, “Auguste, no.”

“What was that? You want me to?”

“No!” he screamed, but it was too late. Auguste was already grabbing behind him, tickling his stomach and under his arms. “Stop, stop, Auguste!”

Auguste laughed and stopped. Then he hugged Laurent, even against his kickings and punches. “Happy Birthday, little brother!”

“Wait till I can get revenge on this.” Laurent said. He was out of breath.

“Yes, Draco Malfoy, _‘Wait ‘til my father hears about this.’_ ”

“Draco Malfoy didn’t have to deal with annoying older brothers.” Laurent said and pushed Auguste away.

“Well, sorry to tell you but you’re stuck with me for life,” Auguste grinned, “It’s you and me against the world. And today is your 16th birthday.”

“I know that,” Laurent said, and couldn’t help but smile. He had good memories of his birthday. Their mother loved to celebrate them, with parties and presents and huge cakes she’d bake and decorate herself.

“So, what do you want to do today?” his brother asked.

“Have cake, and read.”

“That’s boring, Lo.” Auguste sighed, “I think our friends are coming over in the evening. So we have most of the day for us to do something fun.”

He wanted to tell Auguste that they were _his_ friends. But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like fighting against his brother. Or anyone in particular. Maybe it was because of his birthday, but he felt calm. And he wanted to see Jord, and Damen, even Nikandros. He wanted to enjoy it. He wanted to try and let himself enjoy it, for once.

After all, they would graduate soon. And it was probable he wouldn’t see them as often, anymore. So, even if they were Auguste’s friends, or his, or theirs, for one day he wouldn’t worry. He wouldn’t care.

For one day, he wanted to feel sixteen years old.

“Okay,” Laurent said, “Let’s do something fun.”

He didn’t miss Auguste’s wide smile.

 

***

The party wasn’t as bad as he thought. Even when Auguste invited more people than planned, Laurent didn’t particularly hate them. There was enough pizza for them to go mad over it, at least five bottles of soda on the kitchen counter and a table full of different snacks Jord and Torveld had brought, including marmalade-filled cookies covered in chocolate. Those were Laurent’s weakness.

The music wasn’t as bad, either. Kallias, who showed up on Auguste’s invitation, had brought Laurent Two Door Cinema Club’s _Beacon_ LP as a gift, and they hadn’t hesitated on playing it. Later on, Laurent and Kallias had started a conversation discussing music, and to both of their surprise, Kallias knew more about classical music than it seemed, and Laurent had a list of indie bands he enjoyed.

They made a pact not to tell anyone, to keep their reputations intact.

And he was having fun, actually. Eating sweets and not feeling completely left out. The only bad thing was that Damen wasn’t there yet. Nor Nikandros. But he could care less about the latter. He still resented him for interrupting their scene in April.

He was worried that the Carnival would repeat itself. That Damen would go missing in action while Laurent waited around like a fool. He quickly tried to shake the thoughts off, but it wasn’t easy. The more the evening advanced, the more it grew, the anxiety in the bottom of his stomach.

“Don’t worry, he’ll come.” Jord said. Laurent turned to look at him in confusion and Jord grinned, then shrugged. “I’ve known you since we were kids, Laurent. Even if you don’t tell me your stuff, I know about it.”

Laurent said, “I—You didn’t tell me about Aimeric.”

“Didn’t think you’d be pleased. I know you hate each other.”

“I thought you were my best friend.” Laurent said.

Jord’s expression changed. His eyes lit up, “Did you say—“

“Say what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Laurent shrugged and walked away before Jord could see the smile forming on his face.

At least, some days, he could make things right.

Friendships and all kind of relationships were complicated, and Laurent used to believe friends were only hypocrite enemies waiting for the perfect opportunity to backstab you. But Jord was loyal. He owed him that.

He slided through the door to the back yard, away from the people and the music. He took a deep breath and leant his back on the lemon tree behind him.

Then, he heard a voice.

“Laurent, are you here?”

“Damen,” Laurent said, “You’re late.”

Damen looked around until he spotTED him, and then walked towards him. He had a small blue box in his hands.

“I know, I’m sorry. Auguste told me to go pick up the cake,” Damen said and frowned, “Sorry.”

“I hope the cake is of my liking.”

“I think it is,” Damen smiled, and then, “Happy Birthday, Laurent.”

“I thought you wouldn’t say it,” Laurent whispered and he could feel his cheeks flushing red.

“What are you doing here? It looks like it will rain soon,” Damen said while taking a look up at the dark clouds over them.

“I’m….not used to being with so many people,” Laurent admitted, “I can only do so much until it starts to be overwhelming.”

Damen smiled, “You don’t like attention?”

“I do. From the people I esteem.”

“Am I on that list?”

“Let me check,” Laurent said, and then, “No.”

Damen laughed then, spontaneous and loud, “Do you have anyone on that list?”

“Not really.”

“Not even Auguste?”

“No, he’s an idiot like you.” Laurent said.

There was the sound of a thunder, and it made them jump slightly. Then, the first drops started to fall.

“I brought you something,” Damen said softly, presenting him the blue box. It had a silver bow on top. A gift. “It might not be perfect, but I hope you like it the same.”

Laurent looked at him, and Damen, although blushing profoundly, was trying to keep his smile.

It was the first time Damen gave him a gift.

“Can I?” Laurent asked just as softly. Damen nodded, and Laurent undid the silver bow gracefully. He took away the lid, and found another box inside.

But it was different.

Laurent took it out carefully. It was a wooden box, with a cursive “L” drawn on top. It was small, a little bit bigger than the palm of his hand. Damen handed him a golden key attached to a small chain, and then Laurent understood. He took the key and put it inside what seemed the lock. Then, he turned it several times, winding it up.

It was a music box.

As he opened it, a soft melody started to play. And a small violinist stood in the middle, swaying around.

It was beautiful.

He didn’t know the song, but it sounded beautiful.

“Do you like it?” Damen asked while rubbing his neck.

Laurent looked up from the box to him, “I do.” He said, meeting his eyes. “It’s beautiful, Damen.” And then, as the melody ended, “Did you make this yourself?”

Damen nodded, “I…wanted to give you something unique. Something no one else in the world can have. Remember the music box I told you about? My mom’s? My dad made it for her when they went to Charcy. So, I figured…”

Laurent said, “Thank you.” And he meant it. From the bottom of his heart, he meant it.

They stared at each other for a minute, and then Laurent smiled at him. He thought, in that precise moment, that he couldn’t be any happier than he was already.

And then it happened. Like attracted by a major force neither of them could control or fight. They leaned closer, and Laurent held the music box tightly against him. He couldn’t risk dropping it. Damen leaned over and took a strand of Laurent’s golden hair away from his face as he pressed his lips softly against his.

It felt as if he was being taken away to another world. One that only existed in his deepest, hidden, teenage wishes. Damen’s lips were soft, and they tasted different from what he had thought. Sweet, like sugar, like sweetmeat and honey. It sent a shiver down his spine, and he couldn’t help but tremble as Damen pulled him closer. They were kissing, and it surpassed each of Laurent’s expectatives, and it was slowly breaking down the barriers of his mind.

He felt as if Damen was invading every single corner of his world, and although it was raining and it was cold, Laurent could only feel warmth filling him up from head to toes.

They pulled away for a second, enough for Damen to say, “It’s raining, we should—“

Laurent interrupted, “I like the rain.”

And they kissed again. It was Laurent’s first, and second, and third, kiss. All of them by the older guy he thought would never give him the smallest chance. Each more powerful than the last. More invasive and intoxicating.

He heard it, his violinist heart singing inside of him. His senses rejoicing all at once, manifesting in a melody he thought he’d remember forever.

May came with the rain. And with the good news. And experiences that go out of the ordinary.

May was every breath that he shared with Damen, and every note he played that made him feel like he could reach the sky that he was always looking at so intensely. May was the music box and the admission letter of his brother, it was the driving lessons and the smell of wet plants and the kissing.

May 27th was the kissing, and the bottle of strawberry cider they drank after that. May 27th was the cake with apricots and cream on top and the Happy Birthday song he didn’t like and it was the polaroid pictures that he kept in his drawer without anyone knowing. It was each of the gifts he had received from all the people that he didn’t know would no longer be present in his future.

It was the smile Laurent wore while going to bed that night, and the music box playing the lullaby on his nightstand.

  
***

But it also was the starting of the darkest stain he wore as an adult. It was the mistakes he couldn’t fix, the words he couldn’t take back.

It was his violin, broken in pieces. Smashed on the floor, destroyed with no repair.

And as Laurent looked up from the remnants of a long time friend, the last thing his parents gave him before they died, the sixteen year old instrument that understood his most precious thoughts, he took the bow.

The only thing he saw was Aimeric’s face before he struck him with it.


	14. The Anthem of the Heart | Part V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...
> 
>  
> 
> I'm sorry. 
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. I wrote a special [Halloween](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8438485) chapter, in case you didn't know and want to read it.

**Part V**

**_June_ **

 

“I want an explanation. And I hope, for your sake, that is a good one.” said Professor Guillaume, and stared at both of them. He looked from Laurent to Aimeric, from Laurent’s broken bow still in his hand to Aimeric’s face that was already bruising.

_ Winter. _

_ Summer. _

_ Converging. _

“Laurent?” He looked up as he heard his name, meeting the Professor’s eyes. He looked furious. Laurent had never seen him that way before. But after hitting Aimeric with the bow, he couldn’t feel anything else that wasn’t anger.

His violin was broken.

June was supposed to be a warm month. The rain slowly faded away, giving space for the summer sun. However, he felt as if it was winter instead. The moment he had seen his violin destroyed on the floor it was the exact minute something inside of him broke too.

“Aimeric broke my violin,” Laurent said, “He did it on purpose.”

“Was that before or after you struck him with the bow?” Professor Guillaume asked, raising an eyebrow.

Laurent glared at him. A look that could make snow fall in the desert. “After.”

The Professor turned to look at Aimeric, who was touching his left cheek rather dramatically. Laurent wanted to hit him again. Spit at him. “Aimeric? Did you break Laurent’s violin?” Aimeric was about to speak, but then Professor Guillaume interrupted him, “I want the truth.”

Aimeric swallowed before speaking up, “It was an accident,” he said.

“It was not,” Laurent hissed, “You smashed it against the floor.”

“Did you see him do it?” The professor asked.

Laurent gripped the bow tightly, “No.”

“So how do you know it wasn’t an accident?”

“Because he hates me.”

“Laurent, please don’t be immature. You both have been fighting all year but that doesn’t mean Aimeric would just break your violin.”

“How can you break a violin by accident? They’re strong instruments, almost indestructible when taken good care of. He smashed it.” Laurent said.

“And then you decided to take justice on your hands and simply hit Aimeric with a bow? Do you know how serious this is? You could have taken his eye out!”

“I missed it on purpose, I’m not an idiot.” Laurent snapped.

“Laurent!”

“If what you want is an apology, then you’re wasting your time.” said Laurent.

Professor Guillaume sighed loudly, and rubbed his temples before continuing, “You both…I’m going to talk to the director about this. It is possible we’ll call your families for a meeting. In your case, Laurent, we’ll have to talk to Auguste.”

Aimeric reacted to that. He stiffened, and lowered his hand. The bruise was red, swollen, a bit purple. “Is it necessary? My parents…they’re busy, they can’t come…”

“It is mandatory, Aimeric. You could easily be suspended and won’t be able to take your finals, or even be expelled.”

“Expelled? You can’t be serious, for breaking a violin? He can buy millions if he wants to! It is not something that important.” Aimeric said.

“You are not something that important either and look at the mess you’ve provoked,” Laurent said.

“Enough!”

Both of them turned to look at Professor Guillaume, who then said, “I recommend you to keep your mouths shut if you wish to stay in Charcy.”

_ Winter. _

_ Summer. _

_ Converging. _

June was supposed to be a warm month. But Laurent feared it would be the coldest of the year.

  
  


***

Auguste was mad.

He was probably the angriest Laurent had ever seen him. Or at him, at least.

He hadn’t told Auguste about the fight with Aimeric. After school, he had gone home and stayed inside watching an old movie while his brother was out having an interview at the Music Conservatory.

And Laurent knew he was mad as soon as he heard the door open and Auguste walking in without saying a single word. He had stood in front of the TV, blocking the view for Laurent.

“I got a call from school,” he said, “Apparently I have to go Friday morning for a meeting with the director because you struck Aimeric with your violin?”

Quietly, Laurent said, “It was only the bow.”

Auguste sighed and threw his bag angrily to the floor, “I just can’t believe I was in the middle of the interview when they called me to say you were in a fight. Care to explain how that happened?”

“What for?” Laurent hissed, “You’re never on my side!”

“What?! I am  _ always _ on your side, Laurent!”

“No, you’re not! You’re always on Damen’s side, or Nikandros’s or Professor Guillaume’s. Or even Aimeric’s! You were going to give up my solo!”

“It wasn’t my decision!” Auguste yelled.

He never yelled at Laurent.

Never.

“I wouldn’t have let that happen. I would never give your solo to some other pianist.” Laurent said and stood up to walk away. But Auguste grabbed his arm.

“No, you’re not leaving. You’re being immature and stubborn. You’re better than this, Laurent.”

Laurent shook his arm away, “Do not touch me.”

“I’m tired of your fights. Every single time I want to discuss something with you, you act like a child. This is serious; they told me you could get expelled.”

“Let them do it. I don’t care, Auguste. You were the one who wanted to go to Charcy, not me.”

“What am I supposed to do if you get expelled?! Can you ever think of anything else that isn’t yourself? Laurent, you’re underage. Whatever you do, whatever happens to you is my responsibility.”

“Then you should have let me stay with uncle.” Laurent said. The words tasted like bitter medicine. Almost acid in his mouth. “Leave me with him and go. I know you were admitted in the music school you wanted to go to in France.”

Auguste stared at him, “You don’t mean that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about that? You thought I would never find out on my own?”

“I didn't tell you because I didn’t even consider it. I will never leave you alone.”

Silence. The brothers stood silent for a moment, staring at each other. Auguste’s eyes were the same shade of blue as Laurent’s, but firm, fierce. Laurent’s were angry, but also sadder. The more Laurent felt Auguste seeing through him, the sadder he felt. The uneasiness rising inside of him, mixing up his feelings again. After months of feeling like the oddest human being in the planet, Laurent had managed to regain control of himself. To start and understand a part of him. Damen had helped him do that.

But now, Aimeric had ruined it completely. 

So, he talked. He talked to his brother because he missed him. And even if Auguste was angry at him, he needed to say it.

“Aimeric broke my violin.”

Auguste’s expression changed. Every muscle in his face turning to worry. Surprise and absolute disbelief.

“Mom and dad’s violin?” He whispered. Laurent nodded.

“Lo…I’m so sorry. Is it too bad? Maybe we can--”

“Don’t.” Laurent said, “Don’t tell me we can fix it. This time we can’t.”

Saying nothing, Laurent took Auguste to his room, and as soon as he saw the state Laurent’s violin was, he gasped. It was literally in pieces. Like a broken mirror. A broken world. A dead friend. What once had been a beautiful, unique instrument was now nothing more than useless trash.

“Laurent…”

“Now you understand why I hit Aimeric,” Laurent said.

Auguste couldn’t protest. What Laurent had done wasn't right. And as an older brother and his guardian, he was supposed to tell him so. He should have kept scolding him. But truth was, Auguste was also a musician. And if someone had broken his piano, he probably would have hit them too.

 

***

Losing an instrument was like losing a part of you.

A vital part. Laurent’s violin had been a gift. They had been together for years, Laurent had come to know his violin like if it was a person. And now that it was broken, Laurent didn’t know how to deal with it. He was mad at Aimeric and mad at himself for letting it happen.

Neither him nor Aimeric could participate in the orchestra activities or Auguste’s Project until further notice. This left Laurent with a lot more of free time he would like to have. He missed playing the violin every evening. It was a routine he was more than used to. He had internalized it to the point of being completely lost without it.

Afternoon classes were over. Jord was practicing with the chorus, and Nikandros, Damen and his brother were in the football team. This meant he was alone. As he watched them running across the field, he felt a certain kind of loneliness he hadn't felt in a long time.

It was as if he had returned to the starting point, back in February, when he sat under a tree with a group of boys and felt completely out of place and also a strange curiosity to know how it’d be to feel like he belonged somewhere. A lot of things had happened ever since, but he worried that his progress was now insignificant.

He couldn’t help the nostalgic feeling he felt as he remembered the school year was ending. Damen would graduate, and he will stay, like Jokaste had said. Ever since Laurent’s birthday, he had spent more time with Damen. It started to feel normal when they made plans without inviting the others.

_ Small adventures _ , as Damen liked to call them.

To be honest, they weren't anything out of the ordinary, but to Laurent, they felt like everything. Like when Damen had taught him to play videogames at his house, or when they had been together to the library and Damen had listened to Laurent talk about his favorite books.

They hadn’t kissed again. But the memory of it still made Laurent shudder and his heart beat faster.

Sometimes, at night, he’d listen to the music box and think,  _ ‘Damen gave me my first kiss on my birthday’ _ and after dying of embarrassment, he’d smile to himself and enjoy his moment of innocent bliss.

“Where are you,  _ Vicomte _ ?”

He felt as though he was being grabbed from behind. Laurent pulled his head back and looked up, staring at a very sweaty Damen.

“I am here, unfortunately.” Laurent whispered. He couldn’t stop staring at Damen. He always looked so pleased to see him. Like if Laurent was a bright start in a dark universe.

“Auguste told me about your violin,” Damen said, and then frowned a little, “I’m sorry. I know you treasured it a lot.”

Laurent nodded and looked down; tapping the ground next to him, “Sit with me for a little?”

Damen obeyed, and grabbed Laurent’s hand in his. Laurent flushed automatically. They observed each other for a while, the wind passing through and between them, caressing their skin, their jointed hands.

“You’re sad.” Damen said. A statement, not a question.

“I guess, maybe.” Laurent replied, playing with Damen’s fingers, “I don’t like it.”

Damen chuckled, “No one likes being sad, Laurent.”

Perhaps it was because he was feeling nostalgic and melancholic and he didn't have his violin to do the job for him that he asked, “What do you think of me?”

Blinking, Damen lay down on the grass, crossing his free arm under his head. “I think,” He said, “That you’re brilliant, and very talented. I think one you can do anything, you can make whatever you want possible. You’re determined and confident, perhaps a little bit too confident.” Damen chuckled and Laurent pinched his arm, “Ouh, okay, but also you're…beautiful.”

Damen touched his face softly, gently caressing like if he was the wind. He pulled Laurent towards him, making Laurent lay down as well. “Your eyes make me think of the sky. They’re so blue. They remind me of windows, windows to another world you haven’t yet let me see.” 

Laurent was sure he was flushing all over, but still, he couldn’t take his eyes away. “You think too highly of me,” he whispered.

“No, I think you believe you’re not someone people can like. I think you believe that we cannot understand you so you don’t even give us a chance. But I’m willing to take the risk.” They pressed their hands together, palm against palm, fingers finding their twins. Damen’s hand looked darker against his fair skin, but Laurent found it fascinating.

Everything about Damen was fascinating.

Every minute he spent with him he was sure he would miss him a lot.

It stung a little. But Damen was graduating, he should be happy the idiot could make it.

“What if you don’t like what you find?” Laurent asked.

Damen intertwined their fingers, “I already do like it.”

Laurent felt as if he would choke his heart out.

“After graduation—“ he started, but Damen interrupted.

“You're wearing it,” He said, smiling.

“What?” Laurent asked, following Damen´s gaze to the chain with the music box key resting on his chest. “Oh, yes.”

“I thought you wouldn't like wearing it,” Damen said.

“Why not?”

“It doesn't seem like your thing.”

It wasn’t, actually. But it was a gift from Damen. And he liked the feeling of it all; that only he could open and wind up the music box with the key. It was something that was entirely his, and no one else could have access to it. It was private, like their shared kiss, like their conversations and their feelings. No one else needed to know.

The wind blew, making the leaves from the tree above them fall like snowflakes on their faces.

“Le vent se lève,” Laurent said.

Damen smiled and continued the verse, “Il faut tenter de vivre.”

_ The wind is rising, we must attempt to live. _

“You have read Paul Valéry?” Laurent raised an eyebrow.

“You'd be surprised,” Damen said, “Amour, peut-être, ou de moi-même haine?”

“I thought you didn´t like to read,” Laurent said.

Damen shrugged, “Maybe I tricked you.” And then he winked.

Laurent laughed. It was a small, soft laugh. “Your poor Don Juan interpretation isn't attractive.”

“But I made you laugh. Doesn't that count?” Damen chuckled.

Just as he was about to reply, they heard Nikandros´s voice calling Damen back to the football game. Maybe it was simply that he loved to interrupt them.

Damen shouted a response back to him before standing up, “Sorry, I’ll see you later?”

Laurent nodded, “Go ahead.”

Damen started to jog away, but then he came back, like if he had forgotten something. “You were going to tell me something? Earlier, about the graduation?”

Oh.

“Nothing important.” Laurent said.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Go, Damen.”

Laurent sat up and rested his back against the tree once more. He plugged in his earbuds and scrolled down his iPod to find a song. He listened to Chopin as he watched Damen run back to the football field. He wasn't sure what he had meant when he had said that.

_ After graduation. _

What could possibly happen?  He was stupid if he thought he could expect something.

He grabbed onto the key hanging from the chain on his neck and closed his eyes. He inhaled, once, twice. And remembered Paul Valéry’s poem. Softly reciting the words, like a mantra he had memorized. His favorite verse, the one that spoke him best.

_ Oh, for myself alone, mine, deep within _

_ At the heart's quick, the poem's fount, between _

_ The void and its pure issue, I beseech _

_ The intimations of my secret power. _

_ O bitter, dark, and echoing reservoir _

_ Speaking of depths always beyond my reach _ .

 

***

That night, Auguste ordered Chinese food.

It was raining, and they were getting ready to have dinner when power went out.  So they took the bags to the living room and put the food on the coffee table. It was rather odd, since Auguste usually preferred to cook himself than buy food. And more when Auguste was supposed to be mad at him still for fighting in school. They sat on the floor and Auguste lit up candles.

Laurent was eating sour chicken and fried rice when Auguste asked, “So…what’s going on with Damen?”

He had a hard time swallowing down but managed to do so. No choking this time. He should try to stop Auguste from talking about Damen when they were eating dinner.

Laurent shrugged, “Nothing in particular.”

Auguste made a ‘tsk’ sound with his tongue, “Come on, like if I hadn’t seen you both together in the courtyard today. Plus, you’ve been going out with him  _ alone  _ almost every evening.”

“Not every evening,” Laurent rolled his eyes, “You’re exaggerating.”

“Tell me then. Have you kissed him yet?” Auguste chuckled.

“Auguste!” Laurent was flushing all over. “Of course not. It’s nothing like  _ that _ .”

“Mhm, sure thing, and I’m Mother Teresa of Calcutta.”

“You might as well be.” Laurent whispered and played with the chicken left on his plate.

“The music box he gave you is really pretty,” Auguste said, shoving a spoonful of noodles into his mouth.

“It is,” Laurent said softly and couldn’t help but smile a little at the memory of his birthday.

“You make that face and then lie saying you don’t like him,” Auguste teased, and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Shut up,” Laurent said, “I told you it is nothing like that.”

“Mhm. Whatever you say, little brother.” Auguste grabbed his drink and said, playfully, “That’s not what the lemon tree said, though.”

Laurent was confused for a minute until he got it. Realization struck him like an arrow. They had kissed in front of the lemon tree.

And Auguste knew.

“Maybe it’s time for us to have the talk,” Auguste said.

“You have to be kidding me.”

“I am not. Listen, exploring your sexuality is wonderful but there are risks you must know about,”  Auguste explained, “The first rule is to always use protection.”

For a minute there, Laurent considered stabbing himself with the chopsticks. He grabbed his plate and stood up, “I’ll go finish my dinner somewhere else.” He said, and then walked away towards the stairs.

“Wait! Laurent! We haven’t discussed consent yet!” Auguste called after him.

Never in his life had he been as embarrassed as he was that night.

 

***

Friday came faster than he had wished for it to. It was rather early when he found himself sitting in the director's office along with his brother and Aimeric’s family.

Aimeric looked sickly pale, and his was moving nervously on the seat. His father, sitting next to him, didn´t look any more content.

Professor Guillaume explained the situation briefly, as to everyone already knew what was the issue, while the director listened and nodded. The director was an old man who had been a famous musician himself and director of an orchestra for many years. He was dumpy, had almost no hair and wore thin framed glasses. Laurent had only seen him during official events or the entry and closing ceremonies. He rarely left his office.

Sitting in front of him, he wondered if the man even knew Laurent´s name. He certainly knew Auguste’s, though. Laurent was sure of it. Everyone admired and respected Auguste.

“Aimeric,” the director said and looked at him. In spite of his old and weak grandpa looks, the man spoke steady. Not angry, however. “You said it was an accident. Can you explain to me what happened?”

Aimeric looked at his parents before speaking up. He went on about how Laurent had left his violin in a bad position, and he stumbled against the chair, making it fall hard on the floor. Laurent didn’t believe a word of it. He had to admit Aimeric had a thing for lying. But the look in Auguste’s face said he didn’t believe a word, either. And Auguste wasn’t one to lose at anything, not even discussions like this. Less, if it was about Laurent.

The director listened and then turned to Laurent, “Laurent, you believe Aimeric broke your violin on purpose, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Laurent said.

“But you weren't there when it happened.” The director said.

Shaking his head, Laurent said, “No.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, director, but, I talked to my students as you asked me.” Professor Guillaume said, “And two of them were in the moment of the incident.”

“Make them come in.”

Professor Guillaume opened the door and hurried two students into the office. One of them was Torveld. The other one, a girl he recognized as Kyrina from the orchestra. They stood in front of the director as he asked them questions.

Both of their versions coincided in that what happened hadn't been an accident. Aimeric had broken the violin intentionally. It was before practice. Laurent had left his violin in the music room, and then had gone search for Jord and Auguste. It was the day they’d play Auguste’s song, which was finally finished, and Laurent would play the solo officially for the first time.

“I don’t think it was an accident,” Torveld said, and exchanged a look with Kyrina, who nodded.

After the director dismissed them, Aimeric said, “Torveld is one of Laurent’s friends. You can’t trust his testimony was objective.”

“Are you implying your classmates lied?” the director asked.

“Aimeric, tell the truth.” His mother said.

“I—He can just buy another violin!”

“That violin,” Auguste said. Everyone turned their heads to see him, “was a gift my parents gave Laurent before the accident. It was the last thing he ever received from them.” He turned to Aimeric, “Don’t you get it? It is not that you broke it, or the fact that we can buy another one, it is that you destroyed the last memory my brother held from them. And you have the nerve to sit here and speak words about things you have no clue about.”

After that, Auguste turned to look at the director, “I know my brother also did wrong. He hit Aimeric and that deserves to be acknowledged.  But he didn’t start this fight. He didn’t break another musician’s instrument. Neither Laurent nor I have had problems in this institution before. And I believe my brother. If he says Aimeric broke it on purpose, I believe him.”

“I can’t believe you did this, Aimeric.” His father spoke up and looked at him, “You’ve embarrassed me. Us. Your brothers never gave us these kinds of problems.”

“Dad, please let me—“

“No. I don’t want to hear more of your lies. And please, don’t start another scene. It has been enough already.”

The director sighed and placed his hands together on the desk, “Aimeric, this is a very serious matter. You broke your classmate’s violin. As a music student, I thought you’d know better. Even more when being part of the orchestra. This could lead to your immediate expulsion.

“Laurent, you’ll be suspended for a week and you can’t participate in the activities of the orchestra for the rest of the school year. I’m very sorry, but I won’t allow you to participate in your brother’s project, either.  I don’t want to write this in your life record as an aggressive incident since you’ve always been one of our best students. But, unfortunately, I have no other option. This mark in your expedient can be really problematic for your future, especially for you, Aimeric. Professor Guillaume told me you intended to audition for the National Symphony in your senior year. Like Laurent, you’ll be suspended for a week, and you cannot participate in the orchestra anymore. “

Aimeric interrupted, “But, director, the nationals—“

“Neither of you will go to the National Competition with your classmates. And Aimeric, I’d like to talk to you and your parents alone about your future in Charcy. You are a good student, and a good musician, but when you were admitted here through the scholarship you signed an agreement. I am sorry, but I think we’ll have to take away the financial aid for your studies here. That is, if the rest of the directive department don’t agree on your expulsion.”

“This—This is not fair! Why are you going to expel me? Laurent hit me with a bow on the face!” Aimeric said.

“I know that, and he’s being punished for it. He’ll spend the rest of June in detention with ProfessorGuillaume. Aimeric, how can I allow you to sit with the rest of the music students knowing you broke Laurent’s violin? I do not care what reason you could possibly have had to do it, but under any circumstances it is okay. I can’t allow you to be a music student in Charcy, anymore. You broke the most important rule. At any case, we could balance the option of you being transferred to the regular students program. But you won’t be allowed to take any of the music lessons you’ve been taking for the past three years. And you won’t count with the school’s financial aid either, or the recommendations to apply for a music school in the future.”

“It…It is not fair…you…” Aimeric’s voice broke. His lip was trembling, but he held his head high proudly, like always.

Laurent could see how hard he was battling with himself. How he fought back the tears and the trembling of his hands. In that moment he thought that Aimeric was like music. A double edged sword, made to constantly hurt himself, endless pursuing that which caused him pain. A tormented musician.

He followed his brother out of the director’s office, and neither of them said anything else.

 

  
***

He spent his week of suspension at home, studying for his finals.

He missed his violin more than he thought he could. Even when he had used the free time to improve on his piano, he couldn’t really focus on it. It was frustrating each time his fingers moved to the wrong chord, and he told himself that with the violin he could play the song better.

Auguste and him had ordered another violin from the same store in Italy their parents had bought the first one. It wouldn’t take too long to get there, but he was impatient. And at the same time, he felt like a stubborn child who didn’t want it to. He felt he couldn’t love an instrument, especially another violin, as much as he loved his old one.

Laurent had grown up with it, practicing every day, playing songs for his parents. He had taken good care of his friend, and then Aimeric had destroyed it.

So he couldn’t help the rage he felt when he got back to school and saw him. He couldn’t help but feel the same desire of destroying Aimeric like he had done with his violin. He couldn’t go to the nationals, and he couldn’t play the solo in his brother’s song. He had worked hard for months for someone else to come and wreck everything he had done. Laurent had gathered people to help on Auguste’s project. He had stayed up with him composing and fixing arrangements.

However, if he had known that everything would end like it did, perhaps he would have thought better before he turned around that day and faced Aimeric.

He had called his name from the hall. He looked emaciated. Like if the week of suspension had done him more wrong than right.

“Why are you still here?” Laurent said, “I thought you’d get expelled.”

Aimeric swallowed and closed his eyes like he had expected the blow. “I will finish the school year in Charcy, like it or not.”

“Enjoy your last days as a musician, then.” Laurent said.

“I won’t stop being a musician, and—“ Aimeric looked troubled, but he took a breath and said, “I came to—“

“To what?” Laurent snapped, “I don’t have any more instruments you can break. No more solos you can steal. Congratulations, if this is what you wanted. I would say you were a fair rival, but considering you doomed yourself in the way only because of your jealousy then you are not even worth that.”

“I came to apologize to you!” Aimeric said, and Laurent could see how people were gathering around them. Gossiping, whispering things he couldn’t make out.

_ Apologize? _

That only managed to enervate him more than he already was. “Oh, no, Aimeric, I should probably thank you. Since you’re doing both of us and the rest of the school a favor with your expulsion.” He said, “See, the orchestra doesn’t need a pathetic piece of scum whose only chance of getting to play a solo is to smash the instrument of another musician.”

Aimeric tried to say, “You wouldn’t understand! You wouldn’t understand what it feels like. To live under a shadow!”

“Aimeric, you never lived under my shadow. You were never good enough for that position. You’re easily replaceable. Next year, we’ll go to the nationals and it won’t matter that you are not there. No one will miss you, no one will need you.”

“That’s not true. I had a position. I was just as important to the orchestra as you are,” Aimeric said.

Laurent stepped towards him, and Aimeric stepped back instinctively. He took a hand to his cheek where the bruise of Laurent’s bow was now finishing healing.

“You are not important.” Laurent said, “And I’ll make sure no one in the music world knows your name. I will go to the National Symphony and take your place, again, and again. It won’t matter how much you practice, I’ll always be better than you.”

Aimeric paled, and his eyes filled with tears, “You wouldn’t…You can’t…”

“Do you want to bet?”

“I’m sorry I broke it. I’m sorry I broke your violin,” Aimeric said, as tears started to roll down his cheeks.

Laurent said, “You’re the fourth son, the second violinist; you’re always the one no one notices.”

“Stop, I won’t listen—“

“Like a slut. You go everywhere seeking attention.  And you couldn’t even do it properly. Not even Jord supports you. He chose me over you. See? I keep winning, and I don’t even have to do anything. You did it all for me.”

“That’s not—“

“Don’t you get it, Aimeric? You were the one who told me I would end up alone. You were the one who thought everyone would believe you. But it wasn’t like that. You’re worth absolutely nothing. Not even your parents fought for you!”

At some point, Aimeric had started sobbing. He was covering his mouth with his handkerchief in his hand.  Laurent wasn’t even finished. He wanted to go to the music room and break his violin while he watched.

It wasn’t fair.

He barely noticed when Jord walked up to him, “That’s enough, Laurent.”

“Now you’ve come to defend your bitch?” Laurent said.

Jord snapped, “This isn’t right and you know it. Aimeric wanted to apologize to you. He was already punished for what he did.”

“I don’t care. He started this fight, and I’m going to end it my way.”

“By becoming a bully? You don’t know what he has gone through! He was just—“

“Move, Jord.”

“No. Leave him alone. If I’m your best friend—“

Laurent laughed, “Did you really believe that stupid lie? That you’re my best friend? You’re worth to me as much as Aimeric.”

Jord said, “You don’t….”

He looked hurt. And somewhere in his heart Laurent felt it too. It hurt. He turned to Aimeric and said, “I’ll make a prediction for you, shall I?”

“Laurent,”

That voice.

Damen.

He turned around and Damen was standing there, watching him. He looked from him to Jord to the sobbing bitch of Aimeric.

“What have you done?” Damen said, “You’re better than this…”

_ You’re better than this, Laurent. _

_ You could be a better musician. _

_ The problem is your attitude. _

_ I’m tired of your fights. _

_ I am always on your side. _

_ You’re cruel. _

_ You’re a jerk. _

Laurent said, “That’s what you wanted to believe.”

“I know you’re mad, but…humiliating Aimeric won’t make you feel better.”

“I was actually having a great time until you interrupted.”

Damen shook his head, “I know you. You’re not like this. You wouldn’t talk to Jord like that; he’s your best friend.”

“Why does everyone think now that I have friends? Did I at some point mislead you to believe I cared for you any more than I care for a piece of garbage?”

Damen froze in his feet, “Is that what you really think of us?”

“What else? You’re nothing more than Auguste’s friend. Did you think that a kiss would magically change everything?” Laurent said, “Don’t make me laugh. I knew you were dumb but I think you exceeded my expectations.”

“You don’t mean that,” Damen said and swallowed.

“True, I don’t. I had doubts of your intellect when everyone knew about Jokaste except you. I mean, we all knew she was fucking your brother and you were the only one who didn’t notice. It was that obvious that they liked to do it in the bathroom right in front of you and you didn’t even suspect!”

“You’re trying to hurt me because you’re hurting too. I get that, but Laurent, what we had…I know this isn’t you.” Damen insisted.

“We never had anything, Damen. If you ever thought otherwise then it was no more than a mere illusion you created for yourself.”

Damen was hurting. He was starting to break. Laurent was hitting right on the spot and he couldn’t seem to stop. “But I thought—“

“What? That a meaningless kiss would be enough for me to fall in love with you?” Laurent laughed, “Oh, Damen, it didn’t even make me like you.”

_ No, this is wrong. _

_ This wasn’t what I wanted. _

_ This wasn’t what should have happened. _

_ Laurent, stop. _

“So that’s how it is, then,” Damen said, “That’s fine, go and pretend nothing ever happened between us if that makes you happy.”

“I don’t pretend, Damianos. I told you, but you didn’t want to listen.”

_ "What if you don’t like what you find?” _

_ “I already do like it.” _

When Laurent loses control, he makes mistakes.

Damen was his first one.

 

***

It was the end of June when Aimeric died.

He took his own life before the closing ceremony of the school year.

Classes were suspended until graduation. And students didn’t have to present finals this year. The school would make an exception. The orchestra wouldn’t go to nationals. And Auguste’s Project only stood because they couldn’t suspend the graduation ceremony, too.

Teachers, including Professor Guillaume, said it was a tragedy. The school’s colors from red and blue were changed to black for the rest of the month. Both music and regular students wore black ties.

Aimeric was the fourth son in a family that didn’t pay attention to him. He was  a fifteen years old boy who had to deal with an abusive father and an ignorant mother and three older brothers who didn’t give a damn about him unless it was to bully him when they didn’t have anything else good to do. Aimeric, although he had a scholarship, had a job to help pay the bills in his house. It was the condition his father gave him if he wanted to go to a music school. Aimeric’s violin was old, but it was his grandfather’s. The only one who had ever supported him on his music dream, and who had died when Aimeric had entered Charcy.

He didn’t have an older brother like Auguste, but he was proud and ambitious and a good violinist.

In another life, Aimeric would have auditioned for the National Symphony, and would have become part of the strings section.

In another life, maybe, Laurent could have been his friend.

But now, it didn’t matter.

Aimeric was the secondary character that didn’t make it to the end of the chapter. The character who desperately wanted to make a story for himself, a good ending no one was willing to give him. Laurent had crushed his hope, he had taken the last paragraphs and put the period at the end of the line.  He had hurt him deeply, even if he wasn’t the one who opened the wound, he made it bigger.  A wound that could not be healed. It was too late.

He wasn’t a sky, he wasn’t like sora.

He was a void.

It is said that a rival takes the best and worst out of you. A rival encourages you to be better, to always seek for something more. And even when Aimeric and Laurent had constantly hurt each other, Laurent couldn’t help but feel bad.

Losing a rival wasn’t easy, nor was it losing a friend.

And Laurent had lost them all, in the space of a moment.

 

***

As soon as he got home from school, he went upstairs to his room. He dropped his bag and rubbed his face. He was shaking. With anger and frustration and guilt and sadness.

Everything was a mess.

What had he done?

He wanted to blame someone, but he couldn’t.

Was he to blame? What would his mom think of him now? And his dad?

He undid his tie and took of his jacket. He crumbled it in his hands and threw it towards his bed angrily.

This was wrong.

It was all wrong.

This wasn’t—

He was startled by a sound. The sound of something falling and shattering on the floor.

_ No. _

_ No. No. No. No. _

As he turned around, he looked at the jacket, on the floor, next to his nightstand. He had aimed for the bed, and instead it landed on the nightstand. Making Damen’s music box fall to the floor and shatter in pieces.

“No. No. No.” he whispered as he kneeled on the floor and grabbed the pieces. He tried, with shaking hands, to desperately put it back together. But he couldn’t.

It was broken. Too late. He ruined it.

Again. He kept breaking, ruining things.

_ Too late. _

He realized he was crying when he looked down at his hands and they were wet. His whole face was wet and his eyes stung and his nose was runny. He couldn’t bother to clean himself up, he couldn’t bother to control himself and make the crying stop.

_ Too late. _

He had broken himself too.

He clutched the remnants of the music box close to his chest, like he had done when Damen gave it to him, and he let out a loud sob. A gut-wrenching sob of frustration, and anger, and sadness, and guilt and shame and panic and stress and everything he was feeling. He was crying, screaming, it hurt too much for him to swallow it down. It hurt too much for him to hide it, to regain control.

_ Too late. _

The music box was broken, like his relationship with Damen. Like his violin, and Aimeric, and Jord, and Nikandros, and himself. He had caused this himself.

He was the double-edged sword. The self-destructive musician.

There was the noise of hurried steps and then the door to his room swigged open. “Laurent,” He heard his brother worried voice. “Laurent, what’s wrong?”

Laurent looked up to meet his brother’s eyes. He choked on his sobs and his snot. “Auguste,” he said.

Auguste looked back at him, sadly, like if he was about to cry too. He kneeled down over Laurent and hugged him tightly. “It’s okay. It’s okay, let it out.”

Laurent cried harder. He let himself be held by his brother, he let Auguste rock him back and forth.

“It’s my fault. This is all my fault.” Laurent said, in tears, “I killed Aimeric. I killed Aimeric, Auguste.”

Auguste said, “You didn’t. This was not your fault, Laurent. You are just a boy. You’re just a boy, Lo.” Auguste pet him and kissed his head and held his trembling body. “Aimeric had his own problems. He needed help, and we couldn’t…”

“Damen hates me,” Laurent cried, “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t,” Auguste whispered, “He would never.”

“I broke the music box. It was an accident, I didn’t want to. I never wanted this to happen. I never wanted anyone to die.” Laurent yelled and Auguste hugged him tighter.

“My violin is broken,” Laurent said, and started crying again, “It’s broken.”

“I’m sorry, Laurent, I’m so sorry.” Auguste said. “I really am.”

 

 

***

Auguste held Laurent for hours. He cried every repressed feeling he had inside. All the toxic thoughts and emotions he didn’t allow himself to feel on a daily basis, he was crying them out, choking them on Auguste’s chest.

It hurt Auguste deeply to see Laurent in such a state. But he couldn’t do anything else besides holding him through the pain, until it stopped on it’s own. When Laurent had stopped crying, Auguste made him take a bath, and then made him a cup of tea. He put a few drops of valerian in it, and after drinking It, Laurent had fallen asleep. Laurent had refused to sleep in his room, and Auguste had allowed him to sleep with him in his.

He hadn’t seen his little brother so distressed since their parents had died.

Auguste looked away from the moon light entering from the window, making shadows on his room, to look back at his little brother, sleeping next to him. He pet his hair, and then got up from bed.

He closed the door quietly, and walked to Laurent’s room. He turned on the light, and then picked up the music box pieces and sat at the desk.

He wasn’t sure if he could fix it, but he had to try.

And as the night passed and he worked, he could only hope July was better for all of them.


	15. The Anthem of the Heart | Part VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The show must go on.  
> Like in my favorite opera, the main character paints his face and goes on stage to perform, because even when he's dying inside, this is what he has to do.  
> I'm not going to lie, I'm going through a nightmare. But I'm posting this chapter because it was already finished before all this started and also because I am a writer and this is what I do. Like Laurent is a musician, and has to play even when he feels he's being dismembered. I must write. 
> 
> The high school arc ends here. It has been a wild ride and I can't thank you all enough for going through this journey with me. The amount of love you've all given this story is perhaps more than I could have ever imagined in my most beautiful dreams. This is the end for our teenage boys, but next chapter, we'll be back in the present. 
> 
> Thanks to my lovely betas, Ellen and Lee and thanks to Kelly for being a huge support, always. Thanks for the 200 Kudos, and thanks to Beatrice, who continues to make beautiful [fanart](http://princesgambit.co.vu/post/152911139186/a-wonderful-amazingly-talented-person-made-this) for this story. 
> 
> Enjoy<3

**Part VI**

**_July_ **

 

Before Aimeric’s funeral, the school had a ceremony.

Everyone, students, parents and teachers assisted. Including Aimeric’s family. Laurent had been hiding, hoping Auguste would spare him from it. But Auguste had dragged him away from his hiding place, made him put on a black suit, and taken him to the car.

His brother had been nice and understanding, and had practically said nothing as he helped Laurent with his tie. But Laurent’s head hurt, and he was tired and couldn’t focus on anything. It had been painful to wake up.

He had found himself in Auguste’s room--because he hadn’t slept in his own room in days—and his memory came back fractionated in different scenes. Scenes that his mind wouldn’t stop playing over and over again like a scratched disk. He could still feel in his tongue the burnt from all the things he had said to Aimeric days prior. He could still see Damen’s face as he took his heart and broke it in half. He could still hear Jord’s crying when they announced Aimeric’s death.

The ride to the school was long and silent. Auguste didn’t talk and Laurent didn’t try either. What could they say? Talk about the weather while casually driving to a funeral? He counted the minutes in his head as he looked out the window, tapping his fingers on his leg.

It felt like a never ending nightmare. From the moment his violin was broken, Laurent felt as if he was in an alternative universe. A bad dream he couldn’t wake up from. A fever he couldn’t sweat out. He remembered how, in video games, you could always hit the reset button, like Damen had taught him.

During his music lessons while growing up, teachers would often tell him that if a song was sounding wrong midway, it was best to stop and try again. He remembered one in particular, an experienced Japanese violinist named Sakura. She spoke English with a thick accent, and always had her long black hair tied up in a bun. Laurent was five years old, and in his eyes, she was like a doll. She treated him nicely and always let him pick the songs he wanted to play, even when they were technically impossible for a small child.

So, it wasn’t strange when there were songs he couldn’t play properly. When that happened, she never got mad at him. She would giggle and say simply, “Try again.”

It was often in life when he wished he could begin again. Like restarting a song, going back through the chords to start the piece again.

But this…he couldn’t go back to the start. Because the one thing you could never fix is death. Death doesn’t have a way out. It doesn’t have a restart button. The person is gone forever and all you can do is regret.

It wasn’t that Laurent regretted hurting Aimeric. Or the things he said.

It was that he regretted losing control, he regretted not thinking. That had been the fatal flaw.

The ceremony was mostly long and unpleasant. It was so silent in the Auditory that they could perfectly hear the low sobs coming from Aimeric’s mother. It sent shivers down Laurent’s spine.  Teachers talked about how good Aimeric was as a student. And one of his friends in the orchestra gave a small speech too. He looked around in the crowd trying to spot Jord, and he found him sitting next to Nikandros and his parents. He was holding tightly something in his hand, and after a few glances, Laurent realized  it was Aimeric’s handkerchief.

When it was over, most people would go to the cemetery along with the family. Of course, not everyone could go, but he saw Jord leaving along with Aimeric’s parents.

Laurent hadn’t been to a funeral since his parents had died. He got lost in the flashbacks, and he saw himself a small kid, holding Auguste’s hand as they both watched the coffins going down.

He didn’t want to live the same again. He didn’t want to see Aimeric’s coffin.

A wave of nausea hit him and he tugged on Auguste’s sleeve, trying to get his attention, like he used to do when he was a child. “Auguste…can we go home?”

Auguste looked at him, and in that minute Laurent realized Auguste had been remembering that day, too. Words weren’t needed; their connection was stronger than that. The sadness and melancholy was another thing they shared. After all, they were brothers. Auguste gave a small nod and said, “Let’s go home.”

 

***

It was around ten when his phone started buzzing. Laurent rolled on his stomach and reached over the nightstand to grab it.

It was a call from Damen.

His heart started to beat up faster, and he bit his bottom lip involuntarily. He looked up from the screen to the TV where Aladdin was on.

Should he…?

The phone stopped vibrating, and Laurent felt both relief and disappointment at the same time. He didn’t know what to tell Damen. He wanted to talk to him but at the same time he wanted to avoid it. He wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened. And every time he thought of Damen, he remembered the music box, falling and breaking. He remembered how pretty the melody was, and how happy he had felt on May 27th. He couldn’t help but remember the sound Damen had made as they kissed. He couldn’t help but feel again the touch of Damen’s hands caressing his face, his own full lips searching for Laurent’s.

It had been a dream. A wish. A moment of bliss that never lasted. The image of how it could have been, were they to become something more.

But it was ridiculous, wasn’t it? To think like that.

So, when Damen called again, Laurent ignored it. He placed the phone on the bed next to him and focused on the Genie turning Aladdin into a Prince.

For the first time in his life, he wished he had too a Genie. He wondered that if he was to be granted three wishes, what he would wish for.

_I wish my violin wasn’t broken._

_I wish I could cut out my own tongue._

His phone’s screen lit up and he looked over to see a new text message.

Damen said, _“I want to talk to you. Please call me back. Please.”_

Laurent hugged his pillow tightly against his chest and buried his face in it.

_I wish I didn’t feel anything._

 

***

Summer started with the arrival of the new violin.

However, Laurent still had not opened the case. In spite of Auguste’s insistence, he couldn’t bring himself to open it. He didn’t want another violin. He didn’t know what it was that he wanted.

Auguste desperately tried to make him feel better, to the point of trying and putting back together the music box. Of course, it had been useless. It had no repair. Laurent had had a childish hope inside that perhaps his brother could fix it. Auguste could do anything; he could always make it better. But not this time.

Auguste couldn’t clean up his mess this time.

Graduation would be soon. Even though he spent much of his time with Laurent, Auguste still had paperwork to do for the music conservatory. And, even though they didn’t have classes anymore, he was still in the graduation committee. He had to help prepare it all, along with the speech and the song they were to play.

It felt odd, to play a song without one of the musicians. It was true Laurent had told Aimeric he wasn’t important, and that they wouldn’t need him, but as the days passed he realized he couldn’t convince himself of that lie. Aimeric had worked with them in that song and now he was dead.

Those kind of thoughts were the ones to wake him up at night with difficulty to breathe and a bad feeling in his stomach. He didn’t want to face Jord, or Damen, or Nikandros. Not especially after Nikandros had come to his house and almost punched him for what he had done to Jord and Damen. If it wasn’t because Auguste had stopped him, Laurent would probably have a  black eye.

Laurent would have let Nikandros punch him, though.

He didn’t really care, anymore. He knew he had to see them again, sooner or later, but he was trying to avoid that thought.

Damen had called him once. He hadn’t answered, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Was he calling to yell at him? Tell Laurent he hated him?

Laurent thought that if that were to happen, he wouldn’t survive it. He was hurting enough already. It was more than enough the pain he had inflicted on himself for Damen to add salt to his wounds. Although, he wouldn’t blame him if he did.

He missed him.

He missed the feeling of their palms together, their fingers entwining. The sound of Damen’s laugh.

It was true they hadn’t shared more than a few moments together. A few days, a few scenes, some pretty dialogues proper of a ridiculously corny story. But he couldn’t stop feeling so blue.

Perhaps it was for the best, that whatever was happening between them had ended.

Laurent ignored the unopened violin case by the wall and sat on the couch with his guitar. He hadn’t used it in years. He liked strumming chords, sometimes. It was never the instrument he preferred, but he couldn’t fight the constant urge of playing something. Making music. Making noise.

He needed to do something. Auguste was always playing the piano, so that only left him the clavietta and the acoustic guitar he kept in his room. The clavietta was nice and useful for the soft, happy tunes. Feeling as broken hearted as he felt, it wasn’t the instrument he needed at the moment.

So, he opted for the guitar. It took him a while to clean it up and change the old strings, but with so much free time, he needed something to distract him. He tuned it by ear. Hoping that in spite of the years he had spent without playing it, he still remembered how to do it properly. When he had done it, he sat with it on his lap. His fingers found their way to the strings, and he tried strumming a few basic chords as he listened carefully. At first, the tip of his fingers stung. The sensible skin there reddening with every movement. He remembered immediately how gentle Damen had been when taking care of his violinist hands.

His heart hurt, so he strummed a new chord.

He felt as if he was ill, but he knew he very much wasn’t. He never had appetite and was constantly torn between the thin line of insomnia and sleeping all day. Like the old guitar, he was functioning, but slightly out of tune.

He leant back on the couch and closed his eyes. He inhaled; his lungs filling with air left him relieved. As if he was gasping and he hadn’t realized. The house was quiet and still except for the soft sound of his guitar.

Low, sad chords.

_D, Bm, A, G, repeat._

It was a surprise to himself when he opened his mouth and started to sing quietly. A humming, turning into words. Almost like a whisper, “Did I make any mistakes today?”

_I feel this emptiness inside, trying to push thoughts aside; I like to pretend there’s nothing on my mind._

He hated the fact that he felt so pathetic. That he was literally drowning in self pity, something he had never allowed himself to do. He wanted to grow up and forget this all had ever happened. He wanted for Damen to go start his new life and forget about him so Laurent could do the same.

Laurent strummed more chords and whispered, “I tell myself I should be used to it by now.”

_I try to hide it all inside but it's too loud._

His feelings didn’t match what he was thinking. His mind, still objective, a machine, tried to tell him this was nothing but absurd. That he had to forget about it. Be happy Aimeric was gone, be happy Damen would be on his way to Ios soon.

But his heart…

It didn’t really agree.

 

***

“I know what you’re asking, Damen. And I won’t do it.” Auguste said.

They were sitting in Damen’s room. They had been sorting things from the graduation committee. The song was ready, the decorations and the speech too. It seemed unreal that they were graduating so soon.

Sometimes, Auguste didn’t feel eighteen. He felt much younger inside. Like if he had never really grown up, like Peter Pan. And as he watched his best friend biting his lip and running a hand through his hair desperately, he thought Damen hadn’t really grown up either. He was still the same boy he had met in first grade. Always kind, caring, a bit arrogant when it comes to sports. A bit shy when it came to Auguste’s younger brother.

He didn’t like saying no to Damen. But he also didn’t want to get in between him and his brother. Truth was, as much as Auguste would love for them to finally fix things, he couldn’t be stuck in the middle.

Laurent had made a mistake, and if he wanted to fix it, he’d have to do it by himself. He couldn’t push him into talking to Damen if he didn’t want to. And he couldn’t just make Damen forgive Laurent for everything, either.

They had to talk things through themselves.

Damen groaned, “Please…just…he won’t answer my calls, and he won’t text me back, either.”

“Then go talk to him in person,” Auguste said.

“You say it like it’s that easy,” Damen sighed.

“Of course it’s not. But, is this how you really want for things to end?” Auguste asked.

“No.” Damen said, a bit abruptly.

“Then you have to talk to him.” Auguste said, “He’s been…he hasn’t been himself ever since…” He stopped himself. Damen didn’t need to know about the broken music box. Auguste didn’t want any more crying. “Since the fight, and Aimeric, you know? He thinks…that it is his fault.”

“But it’s not his fault. Aimeric…Laurent didn’t want Aimeric to die. He wanted to punch him, yes, but not…”

Auguste said, “I know,” then, he smiled sadly as he said, “Laurent…he’s the kind of person who acts like he doesn’t feel anything, when in reality it is because he feels too much that he acts the way he does. He’s…obstinate, stubborn, perfectionist…but he’s…really caring. Once he starts caring, he will do anything for you.”

But Auguste also feared his little brother had one problem.

Laurent was the kind of person to allow growing pains take over him. He’d nurture the darkest feelings he had within; let them become a part of him. Anger, sadness, shame, vengeance. He wasn’t impulsive, but sometimes, he couldn’t help but let his emotions take out the worst of him.

Laurent had to learn to let go off them.

He had to learn to forgive himself, before forgiving others.

 

***

Laurent was reading underneath the piano.

Auguste told him a million times he would catch a cold if he spent so much time laying on the floor, but Laurent was comfortable there.

It was like a small sanctuary in the middle of chaos.

He was on his stomach, turning the pages, when his brother came to sit at the piano. Auguste reached over and tickled him with his foot. It was something he liked to do and that started to annoy Laurent.

“Your feet stink,” Laurent said, his nose wrinkling.

“Your attitude stinks,” Auguste said.

“Leave me alone.”

“We have to talk about it sooner or later, Lo.”

Laurent sighed, “I don’t want to talk about it and I won’t. No matter how much you insist.”

He waited. After a moment, Auguste said, “All right.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. That was odd. Auguste never dropped a discussion. Seconds later, the sound of the piano filled the room. He was playing.

“What’s that song?” Laurent asked.

“Guess.” Auguste said casually, and then, “You know, Professor Guillaume told me that, due to the circumstances…you can play with us in the graduation ceremony, if you still want to.”

Laurent rolled on his back and looked up from his book at the black marble from the piano.

He pressed a hand to it and inhaled.

He still had not opened the new violin.

“What do you want me to do?” Laurent asked.

Auguste kept playing. Laurent couldn’t guess which song it was. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”

Laurent rested the opened book on his chest and tried to think. Should he? Should he play? His mind was blank. He didn’t know which choices were the good ones, anymore. He felt as though he had reached a dead end. A point in his life where he couldn’t go back.

The piano stopped playing, and he heard his brother’s voice. It was quiet, almost a whisper, and it was pleading.

“I’m here, Lo.”

_I’m here for you._

_Talk to me._

Laurent swallowed, “What should I do, Auguste?”

Then, Auguste appeared under the piano. He moved to lay down next to Laurent, their blond hair sprawling over the floor, shoulders touching.

Auguste turned to look at him and smiled, “I think, little brother, that the first step is to open that new violin.”

 

***

The second step, Laurent did on his own.

This was probably one of his biggest secrets. No one knew, not even Auguste, that he had gone visit Aimeric’s grave. He didn’t have troubles finding it, for it was relatively close to his parents’s.

He felt as though he was intruding some place he shouldn’t. And he wasn’t sure why he was doing it. He didn’t need or want to be forgiven, nor to apologize. Maybe, what he was seeking was a sense of strange comfort to his own soul.

After the fight, Laurent had not seen Aimeric again. It was odd to think that he was dead, buried under his feet. For a long time, Laurent had seen in him an enemy. And now he could see that he had been a fifteen years old boy, just like himself. Aimeric had a horrible personality, cunning and proud and nosy. His sound wasn’t extraordinary nor his technique splendid.

But he could have been. It could have been.

They were violinists. Fighting or not, they shared their feelings for the same instrument. That was the red string tied on their pinky fingers. The thing that had united their lives for a few years.

It was the violin.

So, Laurent played a pavane. Although, initially it was for piano. He had arranged it himself for violin.  It was Ravel’s most slow, archaic work. The melody was rather normal, unusual, ordinary, compared to his other more extravagant harmonies. But what made this one in particular a masterpiece was the fact that it seemed to ease the heart, soothe away the pain from the marks life left on you.  It was probably Laurent’s favorite one from his repertory. And it reminded him of Aimeric, somehow. The subdued expression, a beauty that seemed remote, now.

It was a lullaby, for the broken hearted, the disappointed ones.

 _Pavane pour une infante défunte._ A pavane for a dead princess, a dancing song for the dead ones. The spirits of the youth whose lives had been unfair, and that had ended up too soon.

He played with delicacy, almost shyly. And as he finished, he felt the uneasy feeling in his chest give in. He lowered his violin and took a deep breath.

_You’ll be okay._

  
  
***

Graduation took place by the end of July.

Charcy was decorated beautifully. After the mourning black, the red, blue and gold colors came back. The gloomy atmosphere from Aimeric’s funeral ceremony was gone, replaced by the cheering and laughing of happy students and their parents. Laurent had to admit he could share a bit of their good mood as well, since his older brother was graduating. And he was also giving the speech.

The sun was shining and it was hot outside, probably around thirty degrees. Which made it a little bit annoying to wear a suit.

However, Laurent was there, waiting.

They were going to play Auguste’s song. He felt like he wasn’t ready at all. Not with this new violin and weeks without practice. He was nervous.

He had only played with the new violin once at home, and it hadn’t felt right. He played okay, but the sound wasn’t the same. And he didn’t know if it was his fault, or the violin’s, or that he couldn’t find a connection with it. The emotional bond that took years to build was gone with the other one.

What if he couldn’t play well? He didn’t want to ruin Auguste’s song, too. They had all worked so hard, Auguste had made the impossible by unifying music and regular students, he had convinced them to work together on his song.

He had to play. For his brother. For everyone, even though they hated him.

_Play for yourself, too._

Laurent was sixteen and he thought that he was always screwing up somehow. With himself and with others. He didn’t understand much of his own emotions, much less understood those of his friends. As Damen said, he was always somewhere else. And he never let anyone in.

But there was something he knew how to do, and a place where he couldn’t screw up. He looked down at his new violin and took it out of its case. Laurent was a musician, and he couldn’t make it wrong when it came to music. Music always let you start over, begin again. And the stage forgave all of his sins. And the violin, instead of judging, listened.

He had done the first step, now he needed to take another one.

He had to play, even if he failed, even if he mixed up the chords. He had to play again. Play the solo Aimeric tried to steal. Play the notes Auguste composed with him in the piano of their home. Play, because Auguste was graduating and his parents weren’t there, so Laurent had to be enough.

Because when he played, he didn’t feel confused anymore. Because, sometimes, it was the only thing that felt right. He remembered the adrenaline of the gala concert, the exposed feelings of the days he played for Damen. He remembered the broken music box and the kiss and the fights and everything that this song had come to mean. It wasn’t just his older brother’s song; it was also the memories of his third year of high school.

It was the map of the abyss in his mind and it was the void in his heart.

It was an anthem.

Auguste was speaking into the mic, dressed in his blue gown. It was the ending of his speech, “These past five years we’ve come to many conclusions in Charcy. When we were freshmen, we thought we had the world in our hands. That we could do anything, and we knew everything. Over the years, we discovered we were wrong. That we’re not indestructible, and that we’re not the rulers of the world. At least, not yet. In Charcy we learned to make friends, and also rivals. We learned of hard work, and Chopin, and Beethoven and we sacrificed hours of sleep to hand in an essay on time or to make a good presentation in History.”

People chuckled, and Auguste couldn’t help but smile. Laurent did too. He wasn’t even graduating, but he felt something inside. Something was ending, the chapter was over.

He continued, “But now, after growing up in this institution, I’ve come to realize that what is important is not the A’s and the extra points and your place on the best students chart. It’s not how many golden medals the football team has, or how many trophies the orchestra has brought back. It is the connections we make here that make us important, and indestructible. It is the infinite memories of so many days shared with a group of people that you could have only met here. It is the fact that perhaps, these things only happen once. And when one day we’re all in our thirties and having babies and working and we don’t have time for each other, anymore, we’ll go home and throw ourselves in the couch and we won’t remember the A’s or the medals, we’ll remember the study groups and the jokes and the people you played football with and the songs you played. So yes, maybe we’re not the rulers of the world, and maybe we will never be. But that’s okay. It’s not about who rules the world, it’s about what we make for it. The things we create, the dreams we might achieve, the mark –even the smallest—we can leave to make this a better place. Because Chopin and Beethoven didn’t think of being the best in music, they just enjoyed what they did. They made music because they felt something that needed to be expressed. They turned their experiences into notes with an instrument and managed to change the world. Even after the years, and their deaths, they managed to connect with us in a way that goes beyond any logic. Now it’s our turn for that. Now it’s our turn to go try to hold the world in our hands, even if we fail. Now, we have to forge those connections. We have to make music, make noise, and express something. Make the world feel, shake the floor under their feet.

“I’m going to finish with a quote by Ezra Pound. And as the representative of the 32th generation, I thank you all for being here with us.”

_Go my songs, to the lonely and the unsatisfied,_

_Go also to the nerve-wracked, go to the enslaved-by-convention,_

_Go like a blight upon the dullness of the world._

And with that, they played. The orchestra, and Kallias’ light music club, and Jord with the chorus. Laurent held his violin tightly. It wasn’t the same; it wasn’t the one he loved. But he could learn to love it, too.

In spite of everything that had happened, they could still make music. Their hearts could beat at the same rhythm. And Aimeric was gone, but his melody, his presence was there with them all. It was painful yet it was beautiful and it was comforting for Laurent. Auguste was leaving, and so was Damen and Nikandros. He didn’t know if he could make amends with Jord, maybe he couldn’t. But at least, he’d share one last song with them.

A song full of meaning. A song that was something else. Not a classic, not modern. It was the perfect medley, where the two worlds met. The unreal harmony that composers strived so hard to achieve.

The Anthem of the Heart was a song for orchestra. It was nostalgic, perhaps because the composer was graduating, perhaps because something vital had changed inside of them all that year.

Perhaps they all had gone wrong. At some point, at some dialogue, at some paragraph or unstoppable action. Maybe they went too fast, maybe they were not thinking at all.

But they were teenagers. And they were not the rulers of the world.

At least, not yet.

 

***

“Damen, can you take us a picture?” Auguste asked, and handed Damen the camera.

Damen nodded and took the camera. He was wearing a red graduation gown and Laurent was having a hard time not to stare.

He had made a decision.

Auguste came to stand next to Laurent, holding his diploma and smiling brightly. He elbowed Laurent on the side, “Smile, grumpy face.”

Laurent sent him a glare but tried his best to sketch out a small smile. Damen grinned and took the picture.

“You really look alike.” He said.

“Wait, Laurent, take one of Damen and me please,” Auguste said then and threw the camera at Laurent, who caught it in time. He waited for them to pose—with peace signs and grins—and then flashed the picture.

“Here,” Laurent said, handing the camera back.

“Awww, look at that, we look great! I’m going to get Nikandros and Jord, I want a group picture! Don’t move from here.” Auguste said, and then took off.

Laurent stared at Damen. Damen stared at Laurent.

They were alone.

Auguste had done that on purpose, he was sure of it. He could kick him later, when they were at home.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Damen said.

“I think that’s  pretty obvious, yes.” Laurent murmured.

Damen swallowed and rubbed his neck. His bad habit, giving him away before he even spoke. “I wanted to talk to you…because I don’t wanna leave for college and leaving things unfinished with you,”

“But it’s over, Damen.” Laurent said.

“I don’t want it to be over.”

“But you’ve leaving for Ios.”

Damen searched for his eyes, and Laurent looked back at him. Damen’s eyes were asking for answers.

Laurent didn’t have any.

He had fallen in love with Damen in a strange way. It hadn’t been fast, but it hadn’t been slow. It was sudden. Like a bullet. Like a fall, a kick, a drop. When he realized what had happened, it was too late to change facts.

He thought it was unrequited, that it couldn’t become more than just that. A few glances, a nice smile. A few evenings spent together, talking about nothing, reading poems, looking up at the sky.  

It was hard. Half of his heart was telling him not to do it, but the other half knew this couldn’t lead to something good. The music box was broken. And their hearts were too. Their relationship had gone from being a blooming flower to being poison ivy.

He had to let Damen go. And he hoped Damen would do it too.

It hurt him. It hurt him so much but…he had to.

A chapter was ending, and a new one was beginning. Damen would go to Ios and study, and Laurent would stay in Charcy for another two years.

If their paths were ever to cross again, it’d be under other circumstances. They would be older, and they could solve it out by then. If not, then they’d live the rest of their life, but not together.

“Is…it really over, then?” Damen whispered.

He looked hurt. He looked like he would cry.

_Don’t cry._

He wasn’t one for goodbyes. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Love ends, if you could call it love. Love leaves us, forgets us, simply.

That’s when you realize that it’s over, and there’s no going back. That the melody is gone, and that perhaps these things only happen once. That what had started won’t finish, and that no matter how much you try, you won’t feel the same again.

“Yes.”

The wind blew, passing between them. He remembered how it felt when their hands were together, and he made himself ignore it.  

Laurent turned around to leave, and Damen called after him. He said, “I will wait. I will wait till the end of summer. I’m not giving up yet.”

They stared at each other for a minute, and Laurent fought back against his own heart.

“Le vent se lève,” He said, “Il faut tenter de vivre.”

_The wind is rising, we must attempt to live._

And with that, Laurent left. He walked away, leaving Damen with his graduation robe. Standing there, looking at his back. He didn’t contact him by the end of summer, and Damen let him go.

Laurent didn’t see him again, until Auguste died, four years later.


	16. Treat Me Sweetly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends.   
> I'm posting early again! Since my life has been so chaotic lately, I figured I'd just post it now in case I can't later.  
> I just wanted to say that you've all been amazing. Thank you for your encouraging words relating my personal struggles, and for all the love you've given and continue to give to this story and my characters. Thanks to Ellen, the bestest beta out there and also a great cheerleader. And thanks to Kelly, for being an awesome, supportive friend. 
> 
> This chapter can feel a bit weird, maybe it's more of a transition chapter, but it was needed for us to get back in the present after the high school arc. However, I hope you like it the same.<3 And see you next week.

Laurent met Victoria in a very Auguste way.

It wasn’t weird but it wasn’t the typical way one introduces a girlfriend. Coming from his brother, it wasn’t surprising. That day, Auguste had taken him to the Arles Hall to see a piano competition. It was for young adults, pianists between the ages of eighteen to twenty-five.

They sat in the back near the middle section to get a perfect view of the stage. Laurent was eyeing the program, turning pages trying to find a picture of Victoria. He had heard endless monologues about her long brown hair and her eyes like fire and her powerful smile that had brought Auguste –and those were his brother’s words—to his knees in an instant. He hadn’t met her in person, but he knew it was her before he even read the name next to the picture. She emanated it, her fierceness.

And it was more evident when she walked up stage. She was smaller than Laurent imagined her, and he remembered his mother telling him that the best perfumes always come in small bottles. Victoria was wearing a long red dress, with her wild hair down, and she walked with her back straight and head high. She sat on the piano and waited a full minute before starting to play. Laurent couldn’t help but gasp as he heard the first few notes.

It felt like the beginning of a storm.

_ Étude Op. 25, No. 11, in _ _ A minor _ _ , “Winter Wind.” _

Auguste couldn’t look anywhere else, and neither could Laurent. She was taking all of their attention. The public in complete awe. She was playing one of Chopin’s most technically challenging compositions.

He had listened to Auguste play that song a couple times, but it took him months—close to a full year—to master it completely while he was still in high school. You needed the right amount of stamina, dexterity, technique and experience to be able to play it somewhat decently. Laurent was sure that he could not play it. He could play piano well, to the point of mastering Mozart and some Beethoven. Maybe even some Ravel and Scriabin—hell, even some Chopin. But not this one. This étude was made for professionals, for the true passionate pianists.

The right hand needed dexterity, and the left one flexibility. She had small fingers, but they moved fast and with precision on the keyboard. And she looked radiant; she was shinning like a ruby in the middle of the stage. You could see that she was enjoying the piece, her heart beating to the tempo of it. Her smile growing wider with every note she played. 

James Huneker, a music critic, had said that small-souled men, no matter how agile their fingers, should avoid playing that étude.

But Victoria was a woman. And she seemed to know this and take advantage of it. Laughing at the world, at the critic, at Chopin. She was making this song hers, no matter the prejudices and her small fingers and Laurent immediately felt admiration for that. She was a woman, and a storm, she was fire and lightning and rain and wind and a bright comet in the universe, crashing against their world. Shaking it, till they could do nothing but listen to her music.

What she lacked in height, she had in talent. Laurent thought that perhaps she was the most talented woman he had ever listened to, after his own mother. And she was a close candidate to take Auguste’s crown as Golden Prince of the piano.

Laurent shuddered and felt goosebumps. It had been so long since he had felt that with music, that is was almost comforting to know he still could feel something for it. Very deep inside of him, he still had the soul and heart of a musician.

He felt his violinist heart shaking with excitement in a way he had not felt since high school.

This was the girl his brother had fallen for.

Strong, determined, talented beyond measure. He turned to look at his brother, who was watching engrossed. And Laurent knew, he knew, this was serious. His brother could have a future with her. They were both amazingly talented pianists; no doubt they liked each other.

She had managed to picture a scenery for them. And Laurent understood it perfectly. He could even feel the coldness, the rawness of the Winter Wind she was trying to make them see. He thought that if he closed his eyes, he’d find himself in her world. The one she had inside her mind as she played. 

The song finished, and it took a public a few seconds come back to their senses and applaud. He was still shivering as he clapped, and his brother was smiling widely.

“See? I told you.” He said.

Laurent admitted, “She’s good.”

“She is tremendously good.”

Victoria stood up and took a bow, the public throwing flowers at her. Then, she looked at their direction and waved, jumping in her heels. Auguste waved back immediately.

“Come on, Lo. I’ll introduce you.” His brother said, and Laurent followed him backstage.

 

***

Auguste handed her a bouquet of yellow tulips they had bought on their way, and she accepted them happily, her dark curls bouncing as she leaned over to smell them.

“They’re precious,” she said, “Thank you.”

He let his brother made the introductions, as he was eager to do so. He looked as excited as a puppy. Victoria didn’t hesitate to offer him her hand and Laurent took it, her shake was firm yet gentle.

Obviously, a pianist.

“Auguste told me you’re a violinist,” she said, smiling, “Let’s play together sometime.”

Laurent couldn’t help but smile back, “Fine. But I get to choose the piece, pianist.”

“Fair enough.” She chuckled, and then, added with a touch of mischief, “May I say I’m very good at Tchaikovsky?”

In the days and months that followed, Victoria came to be like an older sister to him. She had the perfect balance between playful and serious, confident and modest. She could get along with Laurent easily, something not everyone was able to do. She understood and respected his space and actions.

She was the only daughter of immigrants who had learnt the language and still maintained the accent of her native tongue. And sometimes she mixed up words then laughed about it and they created inside jokes between the three of them that no one else understood.

He liked her a lot. And he couldn’t be happier for his older brother, who only fell more in love with each passing day.

 

***

He decided to make tea.

For some reason, every time things got complicated in his life, Laurent solved it all by getting up and making tea. It could be simply because it allowed him some time to think while also keeping himself occupied with a simple task. And also because drinking a cup of tea while facing his problems helped him maintain that odd sense of tranquility he put so much effort in. It helped to warm up his anxious stomach and regain control so he could keep on with his façade.

He lit a match before turning on the gas stove, and then filled the kettle with water. Damen was staring at him, resting a shoulder on the wall. He still had bed hair, and his clothes from last night. For a minute there, Laurent thought their date from last night had not been real. It felt like a far off dream in his mind.

“If you have something to say, Damen, just say it,” Laurent said and turned around to stare back at him.

“Do you know that kid?” Damen asked.

“No.” Laurent admitted, “I’ve never seen him in my life.”

“Auguste never mentioned him?”

“Even if he did, I don’t remember.” He said, and then frowned involuntarily. He tried to shake it off, but Damen caught it in time.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Laurent.”

“In the hospital,” Laurent said, “He was always talking about someone. The little kids he liked to play with, or the other patients who taught him to play poker. I can’t remember if he ever mentioned a Nicaise.”

Damen nodded, and walked towards him, “It’s not a very common name. I think that you’d remember if he had told you.”

“Probably, yes.” Laurent agreed. He was tired. They had arrived late and he had been dreaming pleasantly before this new teen decided to bang at his door.

Damen said nothing as he approached Laurent, and then, very gently and delicately, he took a strand of hair away from Laurent’s face. Laurent felt his pulse speeding up considerably, and almost took a step back.

Almost.

But he didn’t. He stayed, and Damen tucked it behind his ear. “It was bothering me. I mean, to see you with that hair in your face. I felt itchy just by watching you.”

“I thought you were staring at me because of my looks. Tragic.”

Damen laughed and frowned, “Was that a joke?”

Laurent said, “It is the side effect of having you in my house for too long. Affects my brain cells.”

“Are you always this charismatic in the mornings?” Damen asked, still with a grin on his face.

“Don’t get used to it,” Laurent said, and then turned off the stove. He opened a cabinet and took out three cups. “Do you want tea?”

“Sure.”

Laurent poured the tea and opened a box of Danish cookies some neighbor had given him after Auguste’s death. He wondered why it was that people often gave food to mourners. Like if food would make them feel better at all.

He was ready to step out to the living room with the tea when Damen stopped him. Laurent looked at him, as he rubbed his neck awkwardly.

“Your hair is getting longer,” he said.

“Yes?”

“It…suits you,” Damen said finally, and met Laurent’s eyes.

Laurent swallowed and ignored the heat on his cheeks as he walked to the living room. He put the tray of tea and cookies on the coffee table as the kid—Nicaise watched him.

“You’re like a grandma.” He said.

“Be grateful I even let you inside my house,” Laurent said, taking his own cup of tea between his hands. He also saw Damen walk out the kitchen and sit on the couch next to him, picking up his cup quietly and munching on a cookie.

Nicaise eyed them for a moment, “Are you two a couple?”

Damen choked, and it made Laurent remember all those times Auguste had made the exact same thing to him. It was almost relieving to know he wasn’t the only one always choking on food.

Laurent sipped his tea, ignoring the coughing of Damen next to him and his attempt to regain some air, “No. He’s Damen, Auguste’s best friend.”

Nicaise smelled the tea on the cup and grimaced before sipping it. “This tastes disgusting.”

“How did you know my brother?” Laurent asked, refusing to rise to his bait.

“He was my tutor during the summer program in the music conservatory,” Nicaise said, while grabbing as many cookies as he could with his hands, “I’m sorry that he died.”

“What is it you want, then?”

“I told you.” Nicaise said, somewhat annoyed, “I want you to mentor me.  I plan to enter the International Royal Music Competition this year. The first rounds will begin in less than a month.”

Laurent lied, another to his collection, “I can’t help you. I don’t play the piano like my brother.”

Nicaise looked up and smile, proud of himself, like he had just checkmated Laurent and he hadn’t noticed, “But it isn’t the piano I play.”

Laurent tensed up, and he cursed as he understood what this all was about. He could even imagine Auguste grinning at him, like this was all a big great joke.

_ No. _

_ Damn it. _

“I’m a violinist,” said Nicaise, “Like you.”

Laurent’s emotions didn’t show in his face; he focused on controlling his breathing and pushing down the anger he was feeling.

“You go to Charcy, don’t you? Surely one of your teachers can give you a few extra classes, if that is what you want.”

Nicaise replied, “I don’t want an amateur high school teacher to be my tutor for the contest. You won it once, didn’t you? Auguste was your accompanist.”

Suddenly, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He remembered. Of course, he remembered. He was seventeen, in his fourth year at Charcy when he won first place in the International Royal Violinists Competition. He was angry at the world, and also a bit sad. From all the repertory, he picked the song he knew no one else would choose. Laurent said, “Shut up.”

“You played Tchaikovky’s Valse Sentimentale, and everyone thought it was rather too simple for you to win, but you did, anyway. One of the judges cried.”

Laurent hissed, “I told you to shut up.”

He could still remember the face Auguste had made when Laurent had told him the song they would play. He was unsure, of course, as accompanist and tutor of Laurent that it would be the right piece for the final round of the contest. It was on the list of authorized songs, but still, everyone else would probably play something from Camille Saint Sa ë ns, Paganini or Kreisler.

But Laurent hadn’t cared that he was risking all the points he had gotten in the past rounds with longer, technically challenging works. He had been playing the violin for more than ten years and he could play better pieces. And yet, he chose that song. It reminded him of Prokofiev’s  _ Dance of the Knights _ , but this one was more melancholic. It was beautiful in the sense that it hid a certain sadness behind the notes but also a certain happiness.

It made him think of two lovers, sharing a dance before parting ways. They know it’s the last dance; the last time they’d see each other, but they smile as they sway around. They smile, and touch each other, trying to record in their memories as much as the other as they can, before one of them has to leave.  No words are needed, just their feelings, their bodies.

He had played the song like he felt it. Not caring one bit about the rules, the tempo, or for it to be perfect. He didn’t have any particular desire on winning; he just wanted to  _ feel  _ something. The other songs he had played were all magnificent, completely masterpieces, remarkable in the classical world.  But he had not felt anything while playing them. He had been having troubles with the violin that year, not knowing what to do regarding his future, without Auguste and the guy he did not want to think about or mention there to make his high school experience somewhat agreeable.

He had entered the contest because Auguste suggested it, and had followed his advice. But winning wasn’t what mattered. He had plenty of trophies and badges already from different competitions.

Four bronzes, eight silvers, nineteen golds.

And counting.

It bothered him, for some reason, that Nicaise knew all this. It bothered him, also, that Auguste had never even mentioned him. Laurent knew that sometimes Auguste gave classes, he liked teaching, but Laurent didn’t know it was to the point a fourteen years old kid would appear out of nowhere after his death.

He was annoyed.

The feelings he had managed to balance out the previous day with Damen were now on the verge of collapsing again.

“Let me play for you,” Nicaise said, staring at him. “I’ll show you I’m worthy of your time.”

“I’m not a teacher,” Laurent said and stood up, “Leave.”

“Laurent,” Damen said, “Maybe you should give him a chance.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion so shut up,” Laurent snapped, and he was ready to walk away when Damen spoke up.

“But Auguste—“

He didn’t even let him finish; instead, he yelled, “I am not my brother, Damen!”

His head was pulsing. And he took a hand to rub his face as he thought of what he had just said. Neither of them said anything for a moment, and Laurent continued, “Get out. Both of you. Out of my house.”

Damen sighed, but didn’t argue. He stood up and looked at Nicaise, “Come on.”

Once he heard the door close behind them, Laurent let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t understand…

He had decided to risk it.

He had played.

He was feeling…better.

But now, it was all back. He felt like he couldn’t control his emotions any longer. One minute, he felt alright, and the next one he wanted to break down and cry. Logic told him that It was probably part of the process of grief. That it was normal to feel so distressed. He was twenty years old, and felt like he was fifteen again.

He needed Auguste. He wanted Auguste to be there with him, explain what it was that was happening inside of him. It was too much for him, his brother dying and then Damen showing up. And Laurent knew Damen was trying hard. He knew that he had promised to give him another chance. But it was harder than the first time, a sequel he wasn’t sure he wanted for it to happen.

Standing there, in the middle of the living room in his big, empty house, Laurent felt himself shivering again.

Adding Nicaise to the picture meant opening more old wounds from his past. He reminded Laurent of Aimeric immediately. Insistent, nosy…young. Too young. It was probable that he was also an excellent violinist, which only made it worse. Music had destroyed him, and it also had destroyed Aimeric.

He didn’t want to be there pushing the knife into Nicaise, too. He didn’t know him, and he didn’t want to know him either. He preferred it if he would just go away. Laurent wasn’t a teacher, anyway. He didn’t have his brother’s patience nor kindness or skills.

He was just…Laurent.

And who was he? Who was Laurent?

What did he want to be?

Now that Auguste was gone, he felt like he was nothing.

And sometimes he felt like everyone was trying to find in him a replacement. Sometimes, he thought that Damen was only seeking for Auguste inside of him. And Jord too. And Nikandros. And now Nicaise. And everyone who knew his brother was always somehow trying to compare him.

He couldn’t…

He never envied Auguste. Never felt jealous of him, not even once. So he felt hurt, and he couldn’t believe he had said that.

_ “I am not my brother.” _

He had said it like if he hated Auguste. Like if he hated the idea of him being similar to his older brother, when it wasn’t true. He just couldn’t give them all what they were looking for. Auguste was gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get his heart broken once more. He couldn’t fall in love with the violin again. He couldn’t mentor Nicaise and he couldn’t go back to school and he couldn’t sell the house.

A voice inside his mind said,  _ “You can’t, or you just don’t want to?” _

_ Auguste, help me. _

He choked back a sob and covered his mouth with his hand as he let himself sit down, his back against the wall. It left him. His mind, left. His thoughts, left. He couldn’t think properly, and he kept saying things he shouldn’t. And he kept hurting himself.

_ I know that my life will never be the same. _

He wasn’t ready, after all. He couldn’t accept music back into his life.

He wasn’t getting better, at all.

_ I’m terrified, Auguste. _

_ Life is slowly leaving me, too.                                                _ __

 

***

“Do you want a ride?” Damen asked.

He found himself locked out of Laurent’s house. He was only glad he still had the car keys in his pocket.

“Sure,” Nicaise said.

It was strange that he didn’t know Nicaise, but the fact that both of them had known Auguste didn’t make them feel like total strangers. Or at least Damen felt like that. They got into Damen’s car and he drove them out of the neighborhood.

“You can take me to Charcy. I have an afternoon class starting soon.” Nicaise said. Damen nodded and smiled to himself as he thought of driving again towards that school.

He had really loved it there. Four years had passed really fast.

“I’m sorry about Laurent,” Damen said, “He’s having a rough time.”

“Understandable,” Nicaise said with a shrug, “I think we’d be the same, if it had been our brother.”

“There’s a certain degree of difficulty in dealing with him, even in normal circumstances,” Damen sighed, and then, “I’ll talk to him, if you want.”

“Nah, don’t. I’ll keep insisting myself.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Damen asked what he was thinking, “Why do you want him to mentor you?”

Nicaise bit into his thumb and said, “I was there. During his final competition, when he won gold. I was there.”

He said it like if that was enough, like it meant everything. And Damen sort of could understand Nicaise. He had watched Laurent play on a stage several times. He knew how fantastic it could be. The only time Laurent didn’t seem to be controlling himself was when he was playing the violin on a stage, with the public in awe.

So, the fact that Nicaise had been there when Laurent won first place in a very important competition and thus decided he wanted Laurent to mentor him wasn’t so crazy. It was rather normal. And then Nicaise had met Auguste and obviously Auguste just encouraged him more.

Had Auguste seen this, though?

Had he sent Nicaise Laurent’s way for some reason?

What if he had?

“I will help you,” Damen said.

 

***

Damen returned a few hours later.

Laurent was on the couch watching a movie, trying to distract himself from everything. He was no longer angry, so when Damen knocked on his door while holding a bag of food and a bottle of wine, he let him in.

It reminding him of all the times he and Auguste would order takeout and sit on the coffee table in front of the TV. They’d talk of random stuff and laugh together. He smiled as he set down plates and grabbed two cups, although he made sure to bring back his poker face as Damen watched him.

“I got salad, chicken, lasagna, potatoes…just eat what you like,” Damen said, and opened the bottle of wine.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back anytime soon,” Laurent admitted, then sat down on the floor.

Damen gave him a look like if he was being dumb.

“What?” Laurent asked.

“I’ve known you since we were kids. By now, it takes more than a few yells to drive me away.”

“I guess that’s true,” Laurent said, and then whispered, “You always come back.”

“You always run away.”

“I’m not running.”

“Hiding, then?”

“I don’t hide.”

“You avoid. You ignore.”

“I don’t,” said Laurent, “I just make everyone believe I do.”

He could feel Damen’s gaze on him. Looking up to meet his eyes, he saw Damen was smiling at him. Always smiling, always forgiving him. Always.

_ Why do you make it so hard to push you away? _

_ Why don’t you leave me, too? _

“Hello,  _ Vicomte _ ,” Damen said, still smiling, “Long time no see.”

Laurent’s eyes widened slightly, but he made himself suppress it. He told his heart to stop behaving oddly at the familiar nickname.

“Hello.”

“For a minute there, you sounded like you did when we were in high school.”

“Is that supposed to be a good thing?”

“Yeah,” Damen nodded, “You were sweet back then.”

Laurent scoffed at that, “I was naïve.”

“You were never naïve.”

Laurent looked at him and then sipped on his wine, “How could you know that?”

“Believe it or not, I was there.”

“Oh you were? I barely remember you at all.”

Damen chuckled and Laurent felt his lips curving into a smile. “Is the wine good?”

Laurent nodded, “It’s good,” he said, licking a few drops left on his lips, “It’s not too strong.”

“I figured you’d like it.”

They ate and chatted. Neither of them mentioned the fight from earlier or Nicaise. They didn’t talk about Auguste either. Instead, the conversation focused on Damen, mostly. Laurent asked him about college, his family – his dad was doing fine, and Kastor still had problems with drugs— and his friends. Jokaste, who had also gone to Ios after Charcy and with whom he still kept contact.

Laurent bit his tongue and swallowed down his jealousy. He wasn’t a teen, anymore.

“How’s Ios?” Laurent asked after a while. They had finished their food, and Laurent licked his thumb as he finished eating a chocolate profiterole.

Damen was lying on the floor, leaning his head up with his hand as he watched Laurent. “It’s…hot.” He chuckled, “The beaches are wonderful. And the centre of town is a mix between antique and modern architecture. The historical infrastructure is well conserved, you feel like if you really were back in that epoch. That is, until you see someone taking a picture with an iPad.”

“I’d like to see it someday.” Laurent said.

“Come with me. I’ll show you around.”

Damen said it like he was serious, and he knew that if he asked, Damen would take him to Ios. He’d show him everything, from his favorite places to the ones he thought Laurent would like.

But that couldn’t happen, could it?

He thought that Auguste would have probably liked it.

“Thanks for the food,” Laurent said.

Damen smiled, “Thanks for the company.”

“That’s not something I hear every day.”

“I’d be worried if you did.”

Laurent chuckled. He couldn’t help it. He realized that he had missed it, after all. He had missed it for a long time. Damen. Their conversations.

“You’re doing it.” Damen said, smirking.

“What?”

Damen gestured to his ear, “When you’re happy, or when you enjoy something, you touch your piercing.”

“I…hadn’t realized that.”

He lowered down his hand and felt his cheeks flushing. Damen still could make those effects on him. Laurent made Damen nervous, sometimes, and Damen made Laurent flush. That’s how they worked, even after years.

“I’ll clean up,” he said. He got up and picked up the plates and the cups.

He felt like his heartbeat was as fast as that of a mouse. Laurent took the time to wash the plates and try to stop feeling as flustered as he felt. He felt hot all over.

This was the wine’s fault.

It was only when he had finished that he heard music coming from the living room. He dried his hands on a towel and went back to Damen. He was standing next to the vinyl player.

“You have a nice collection of LPs.” He said.

“They’re not mine,” Laurent answered, stepping closer, “Mostly my parent’s. They loved eighties music.”

“Well, they had good taste.” Damen smiled.

Laurent recognized the song immediately, because he liked it too. It was another one of his guilty pleasures. A rock band from the eighties that wasn’t really famous in their country, but that was huge in South America.

_ I can’t believe you chose that one. _

“Why that one?” Laurent asked.

He wasn’t surprised when Damen said, “Because I know you like it.”

“How could you know that?”

“Because I’ve always been here, Laurent.”

He swallowed, and they stood there, gazing at one another. Then, Damen offered his hand. “Do you dance?”

“No.”

Damen took another step towards him, and then, to Laurent’s surprise, he started to sing along with the music. “Someone has told me that loneliness hides behind your eyes, and that your blouse retains the feelings that you breathe.”

He wasn’t a bad singer. In fact, he had a nice voice.

_ Stop thinking about it. _

Laurent stared at him as Damen came closer and reached for his hand. The touch felt different. He wasn’t sure why; he couldn’t think of anything, anymore. Damen pulled him towards him, until Laurent was in his arms.

“You’re a terrible singer,” he whispered.

“Really?” Damen whispered back.

He hadn’t remembered how intoxicating it could be. They had only been this close once or twice in their lives, back when they were teens, and Laurent found himself in uneven territory. Damen’s hand was on his waist and he felt as if the touch burned him, leaving a scar.

Half of him wanted to push Damen away, but the other half was too focused listening on his singing. Damen’s singing voice was soft, warm, and not as low as he had imagined it’d be.

_ “You have to understand _

_ That it wasn't me who put your fears _

_ In the place they are stored now _

_ And that I won't be able to shake them away _

_ If whenever I try to do it, you tear me up” _

“It’s okay to be happy, sometimes.” Damen said. He moved slowly, they were slow dancing on the living room.  Laurent was letting Damen lead them. “And…no one thinks you should be like Auguste.” He looked into Laurent’s eyes as he said it. He wanted Laurent to know he was being serious.

“But…I can’t take his place,” Laurent whispered, “I can’t teach Nicaise. I…can’t be happy when Auguste lost his happiness.”

“You can.” Damen said, “You can. Auguste would want you to be.”

_ It’s not fair. _

“You don’t have to grieve alone, Laurent.”

It felt so intimate that he was overwhelmed. He didn’t know what to do. He had to reinvent himself without Auguste. He had to adjust himself to a life in which Auguste was not present anymore. A life that could include Damen, but not his brother.

Late night conversations with takeout food and red wine. Dancing around in the living room to old songs no one else remembered. Going to vintage cafés, walking through the park at night. Playing children’s songs on the piano, drinking lemonade and going through old memories together.

He realized then that he was broken in half. His heart wanted to desperately enjoy those things, but he stopped himself each time, when he remembered Auguste was dead.

They weren’t kids anymore. What they were doing…it wasn’t right.

Why did he feel so nervous? So shy and flustered and why did he like the weight of Damen’s hand on his waist?

He shouldn’t.

The song continued in the background, Damen trying to keep up with the lyrics although it was clearly obvious he had forgotten the second verse completely.

_ “You behave according _

_ To what the situation dictates _

_ And this inconsistency is not something heroic _

_ It's actually sort of sick” _

Laurent found it funny, a smile drawing on his face.  He closed his eyes for a minute, and sang along with the song, too, “I don't want to dream the same things a thousand times,” and then Damen joined. Their eyes met as they sang together, “nor do I want to contemplate them wisely”

There was only one line left.

But he felt that saying it, singing it, would be an admission of something he had hidden deep within himself. An admission of something he made himself try to forget after high school.

Damen’s eyes were sparkling. He liked it, when they did that.

Laurent sang very softly, almost in a whisper, “I just want you to treat me sweetly.”

He had met Damen in a very Auguste way.

He still remembered how it had been. Auguste grabbing Laurent’s hand and dragging him with him as he started running. He was excited. He wanted Laurent to meet his best friend. Laurent was small, and he kept begging Auguste to let him stop and breathe.

And now, Auguste had left them, and they were there, staring at each other, like if they met for the first time. Their paths had crossed yet again, even without the boy who introduced them for the first time.

Because Auguste had brought them together once, and he had done it again.

Words weren’t needed. Music had done it for them.

Music always did it for them.

Laurent reached over to touch his left ear unconsciously, and Damen beamed. “Idiot.” Laurent whispered and then looked away, trying to hide his own smile.

The vinyl player kept going, even when they had stopped. It sang the last words.

_ “Sweetly, sweetly. _

_ I just want you to treat me sweetly.” _


	17. Sonata

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends~  
> Here's your weekly dose of Étude, right on time.  
> I don't have much to say other than I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you like it as well. <3  
> As always, thanks (it's all about giving thanks today, isn't it?) to Ellen for being an amazing beta and cheerleader, and Kelly for being incredibly supportive and awesome in general. I love you both with my life.
> 
> Also, thanks to all of you who keep leaving comments and kudos. You truly motivate me. 
> 
> Enjoy!<3

Damen wasn’t ready.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to think or even imagine. Watching your best friend dying in a hospital bed wasn’t easy to digest, and unfortunately, reality came to be worse than his imagination.

Because Damen hadn’t seen Auguste in a while, he remembered him like he had seen him the day he left for Ios after summer vacations a year or so before, and thus the image of a very decayed Auguste –who had been battling for months with the illness—was shocking, to say the least. Not even in his worst scenarios he had thought he could see Auguste like he did that day. Weak, lonely, his skin a pale, yellow-ish color. His blonde, golden hair gone almost a sick white.

He felt destroyed.

He wanted to break something, or punch someone, but he knew that doing that wouldn’t help Auguste at all.

Auguste was humming a melody, while tapping his pencil on the notebook that was resting on his lap. He looked up to the sound of the door opening, and smiled widely as Damen walked in.

His eyes still held the same strength and spirit Damen remembered, which brought him comfort in spite of the circumstances.

“Damen,” Auguste said, happily, “Nikandros told me you would come. Good to see you.”

Damen smiled, and held up a box of pastries for Auguste to see, “I got cream puffs.”

Auguste cheered, “Well, that’s fantastic, you see, they won’t let me eat unhealthy food. Although eating healthy won’t really make the difference, anymore.”

He said this with a simple smile and a shrug, like one says a humorless joke. Damen didn’t like it at all. “Don’t say that.”

Auguste smiled at him, and tapped the chair next to his bed, “Come on, sit. Let’s share the pastries.”

They ate and chatted. Auguste talked him about Victoria, and the promises of a wedding in spring. They talked about everything and nothing at the same time, insignificant things, avoiding the subjects that truly mattered.

Damen wanted to ask the obvious questions. He didn’t want to pressure Auguste into talking about his condition when he knew he himself wouldn’t be able to take it.

Eventually, Auguste said, “How’s college? And Ios?”

Damen frowned and rubbed his neck, “Good, I guess. You know…it all seemed better in those pamphlets they gave us before we took our admission exams.”

“What’s wrong, Damen?” Auguste asked.

“Nothing. Just, college.” Damen shrugged. He surely didn’t wish to dwell on his own problems when Auguste was…

He was not going to think about that word.

Not ever.

No.

“Tell me,” Auguste said.

Damen looked up to meet his eyes, and then he gave in. He told him about college, about his career. He thought that after the first semesters he’d get used to it, but the more he advanced, the more he hated all of it. He wasn’t made for business and economics. Or maybe he was, but not now. He couldn’t focus on it, somehow in the middle of everything, it stopped attracting him. He wanted to come back home, be with his friends, and help his dad who was having more and more troubles with the furniture company.

Auguste listened to all of it. Nodding slightly sometimes to make sure Damen knew he was paying attention. When Damen finished, Auguste said, “Why don’t you quit, then?”

Blinking, Damen said, “What?”

“Yes. Change careers, maybe. Change college. Or just quit.” Auguste said. The way he said it wasn’t angry, but rather serious. He spoke like a leader, still. He was still the guy who had given the graduation speech, the one who had told them all to go shake up the world. “Life isn’t worth being miserable for five years to do a job you don’t like.”

That hit him hard, like an arrow to the back.

He wanted Auguste to live.

Auguste wouldn’t have these problems. He would make the most of it. Of college, his life, everything.

It was unfair.

“Damen,” he said, “Can I ask for a favor?”

Damen nodded.

“Can you go see Laurent? Please.”

Laurent.

Usually, they avoided the topic. Even Nikandros and Jord did too. After all, it was Laurent who decided to end it. They had been kids, yes. But…

“I don’t think he’d want to see me,” he said.

Auguste took a breath and coughed as air filled his lungs, “I don’t know,” he said, when the coughing had slowed down, “I don’t know If your feelings for him have changed, but I think his are still the same. If you want to know.”

Damen froze, for a minute. Did Auguste know all of the story? Did Laurent ever tell him? He didn’t seem like the type to share those things. But then again, they were brothers.

Perhaps it was a sixth sense.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Auguste said, rolling his eyes at the stunned expression of Damen, “I was your number one fan back then. It’s a shame you two broke up.”

“We didn’t,” Damen said, flushing, “break up. Nothing ever happened.”

“You’re just like my brother,” Auguste sighed. He looked away towards the window, and folded his hands together on his lap. “If I die—“

Desperately, Damen said, “You won’t, Auguste—“

“Let me finish,” He said, and turned to look back at Damen. “If I die, you have to help Laurent go back to the music.” Then, he smiled sadly and looked down at his hands.

_A dying pianist._

“Lo doesn’t play the violin anymore,” he said. “I think it’s my fault, but…I can’t make it right. So you have to do that for me.” Looking up, he met Damen’s gaze. “Promise me, Damen.”

The boy in that white bed was his best friend in the world. They’d grown up together, had friendship bracelets, studied and made pranks and stayed up all night studying for finals.

He loved Auguste. Like a brother. Even more than he loved his actual brother. It struck him, then, the realization that perhaps Auguste wouldn’t make it. That perhaps, he was going to die.

“I promise,” he said, and felt tears start to roll down his cheeks.

 

***

Damen could see the changes in Laurent that would be almost imperceptible to any other who didn’t know him as well as Damen did. By now, Damen had been spending almost each day with him.

He could see the disappointment in Laurent’s eyes when he got up from bed and came downstairs and Damen wasn’t the person he wanted to see. He could also notice that Laurent’s mind often left in the middle of a conversation. That Laurent shut down, because perhaps if he didn’t think he wouldn’t feel anything, anymore.

As a teenager, Laurent had been shy yet eloquent, sweet but still tenacious. He was careful, inexperienced, a fifteen year old boy. The violinist he had kissed under the rain in May. Damen knew, better than anyone –he didn’t dare to say better than Auguste, but better than the rest for sure—the internal strength Laurent held in his very depth. His mind was a fort, his heart a lock. And his eyes hid the secret of a world that was beyond reach and understanding for everyone.

When Laurent shared his thoughts, they were gems Damen automatically saved for himself. He surprised him more and more everyday with his intelligence and talent. Laurent was always wondering about the mysteries of the universe; he knew about poetry and novels and music, and could also kick his ass on Super Smash Bros.

After the incident with Jokaste, Laurent had been there for him. He had no clue how to comfort someone properly, and it would have been funny if Damen hadn’t been so depressed. But, as the months passed and the seasons changed, so did his feelings. They drew closer, and their relationship took another path Damen hadn’t yet imagined.

Because Laurent was a musician, or maybe because he was just Laurent, he felt things too deeply. It wasn’t that he was heartless or rude; it was that because he felt so much that he learnt to hide it away. If someone had empathy, it was him. He hurt you if he felt hurt. He could love you, if he felt loved.

Laurent, however, wasn’t easy to love. He was a puzzle, and Damen had spent a good part of his adolescence trying to find the pieces and put them together to decipher him. He had made progress, but now after so many years, he found himself back at the starting point.

Being worse this time, when Laurent was grieving his brother.

He was anxious, even if he tried to seem calm. Damen noticed how he’d pick at his nails or scratch his head more often, rougher, a sign of desperation. He saw him dialing on his phone and waiting for a voice on the other side that never picked up, only to hang up again.

Some days, Laurent was okay. He kept himself occupied with books and learning a new language. He still hadn’t gone back to college, but Damen couldn’t do anything about that. It wasn’t his business, and he couldn’t give advice either when he had no clue whether he’d continue his career or not.  Some other days, though, Laurent wasn’t okay. He stared blankly at anything in particular, and was twitchy, annoyed at everything, trying to push Damen away.

Damen noticed all these things and more, and it broke his heart in a way he didn’t know could be possible after losing someone as important as Auguste.

Sometimes he spent the night and sometimes he didn’t. Laurent needed his space, and truth was, Damen also had his own reasons to stay in Arles for a while. Besides his doubts regarding his career and Auguste’s death, his father was having financial issues. The company was far from doing okay, and he felt like if he left for Ios and went back to study something he didn’t even feel passion about, he’d leave behind what was most important at the moment. His family, his friends and Laurent.

When he wasn’t with his best friend’s younger brother, he was helping his dad at work, or having drinks with Nikandros who still looked annoyed and displeased each time Damen mentioned Laurent’s name.

He rented a small apartment in town and was debating whether to tell them all –or not—that he would stay. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was the choice that felt right.

Plus, he had made a promise.

He wanted to help Laurent. That was the reason why he also desperately seeked to convince him to teach Nicaise. Damen didn’t know about music, but he knew what Laurent could do. He knew he was an outstanding violinist, that he could go professional and play for a Symphony or an Orchestra right away if he wished to. He knew that any music school in the country would kill to have Laurent in their institution.

This could be good for him. At least, it could distract him.

He always loved music so much. Those brothers, they had always loved music more than anyone else. Auguste made it more evident because he was extroverted. Laurent sometimes said he hated it, and some others he loved it, but the passion he felt when he played his violin betrayed his façade.

Back when they were younger, Laurent would look at him curiously, warmly, with a fondness that surprised Damen yet made him immensely happy. The look, now, was gone. His blue eyes no longer shone with curiosity or joy. Instead, they lost more light, more life, with each day.

Except…the night they had danced. A few weeks ago, when they had slow-danced for a few minutes, the light came back to Laurent’s life. For the small time they shared body against body, talking softly with no hurry, ignoring the world outside those four walls, Laurent had acted tenderly. He spoke with sweetness, and sang the lyrics as he looked at Damen like those long four years had never passed.

All these thoughts kept him up at night. He was tossing and turning in the couch, kicking off the blanket Laurent had lent him.

His head hurt. It was, he thought, the third night he couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t only because his mind was busy spinning his ideas inside like a tornado, but also because for the third night in a row, he heard whimpers.

Soft sobs, like a child crying in fear.

Laurent cried in his sleep.

And Damen didn’t know if he should go to him or stay on his couch, because the last thing he wanted was to make things worse. Laurent was unpredictable.

However, he felt uneasy. He couldn’t close his eyes when Laurent was suffering. So, he made up his mind and stood up. It was dark, the clock marking two in the morning. He slid on his shirt and went upstairs quietly.

Opening the door to his room carefully, he snuck in like a shadow. He had only been in that room when Laurent had fainted and it looked really different in the darkness. There was an aura of sadness around that made it difficult for him to push his own sad thoughts away.  Laurent was sleeping, covered to the neck with his blanket. Damen touched his shoulder softly, shaking slightly and saying his name.

On his fourth attempt, Laurent woke up.

He was covered in sweat and his face was wet with tears. He looked at Damen in the darkness, confused for a minute, “Damen?”

“Are you okay?” Damen asked.

Laurent sat up and rubbed his eyes. He said, “I had a bad dream.”

He didn’t ask why Damen was in his room like Damen expected. In fact, he didn’t say anything else besides that simple answer.

“Do you want me to bring you something? Some water?”

Laurent shook his head. An awkward minute passed, and Damen was about to leave when Laurent stopped him.

“Wait,” he said. He looked younger with the moonlight washing over his face. He tapped the space on the bed next to him, “Sit with me for a little?”

A sense of déjà vu came to Damen, but he obeyed. They were sitting in the dark, together. The world outside was quiet, resting.

Laurent said, “You haven’t been sleeping well,” and then, “You have circles under your eyes.”

“I can’t stop thinking.” Damen whispered.

“And I can’t think.” Laurent said, a sad smile forming on his lips. “I have nightmares.”

“Me too,” He admitted.

“Did I wake you up?” Laurent whispered.

Damen whispered back, “Yes, I got worried.”

“You’re always worrying about me,” Laurent said, “Why is that?”

“Maybe it’s because I like you.” Damen said, and caressed Laurent’s cheek softly.

“You shouldn’t.”

Laurent lay back down and turned on his side to look at Damen.  They didn’t talk anymore. It was enough, for both of them, just to be with the other. Damen resisted the urge of grabbing his hand like he used to do before. He wanted to touch him, softly, carefully, sweetly. But he shouldn’t. Not now.

Laurent seemed tired, his eyes were distant and his breathing changed.  He was falling back asleep. Damen moved to stand up and leave, but Laurent reached for his arm.

He whispered, “Don’t go.”

Damen felt his heart stop inside his chest. It ached. He wasn’t used to seeing this vulnerable side of Laurent. Perhaps it’d be the one and only time he’d see it.

“I won’t,” he said, “I promise.”

He came to a conclusion.

Music was still inside of Laurent. It was there within somewhere he had tried to hide it. Damen just needed to find a way to bring it back.

Laurent was a musician, a violinist, and it seemed that the more he drifted away from the music, the more it hurt him. The more he decayed. He had made a trap for himself.

Damen needed to unbreak the fractures of his heart. He needed to fix the broken violin that had been lying inside of Laurent for so long.

And perhaps, then, he could finally heal.

 

***

Laurent woke up with Damen sleeping next to him. They were facing each other, and Laurent couldn’t resist the temptation; he brushed a curl off Damen’s forehead, and he flicked his fingers on his forehead. He was a heavy sleeper.

For some reason, he found this very amusing. To the point he pinched Damen’s nose, waiting on a reaction. Damen coughed a few times, but continued to sleep. Laurent frowned; if Damen were to be ever killed in his sleep, the dumbass wouldn’t even notice.

Damen was always touchy; reaching for Laurent and caressing him softly. Usually, it took Laurent aback, but he got used to it in high school, to the point he had grown up to miss it. Laurent was the opposite, never touching. So now that Damen was asleep, he saw it as the chance he never got. Damen’s skin was soft, yet not as sensitive as Laurent’s. He didn’t snore while sleeping and his face was all relaxed features. His lips parted slightly, and his chest rising and falling with slow, deep breaths. He was warm, in spite of being uncovered.

Laurent was partly aware of the face he must be doing, and of the constant beatings of his own heart who remembered the emotions of his younger self. A younger Laurent who had had a crush on a younger Damen.

Two reflections of their own persons who will never be back. Two boys who’d never know the burden of the infinite sorrow they both carried now as adults.

It was a stupid thought to think that if he could talk to this younger, angrier and shorter version of himself, he’d tell him to enjoy the moments of laugh and the small details of life that made it all better, if not perfect, but at least better. He couldn’t change the past, and what had happened couldn’t be undone, but it was an infantile wish of those one gets when growing up. To wish for wishes, for a genie. To wish for the broken dreams you often leave behind.

 _Life_ , he thought, _is made of moments._

_Good ones, bad ones._

_Dreadful ones._

_Hopeful ones._

He reached up to touch Damen’s hair. A mess of curls that he lacked and that was rare to find. He left his hand there, twisting strands of hair around his index finger.

Then, he remembered that he had told Damen not to go during the night, and he felt embarrassed and annoyed with himself, his cheeks flushing. He wasn’t that vulnerable. But the nightmares were always so awful he didn’t want to be alone in his room.

When they were younger and Laurent was feeling bad, Auguste let him sleep in his room with him. It happened more often than he would have wished for, but his brother never really minded. In fact, he was a heavy sleeper, too.

The memory of his brother snoring like a bear made him click back into reality. It was October now, and the leaves were falling. Soon enough, it’d be one month since his brother’s death.

One month without Auguste’s existence.

One month, of many more to come. And he wasn’t prepared for them.

He took his hand back and slid out of bed. The floor was cold, but he walked barefoot to the bathroom. The past days were a blurr in his mind. It was as if, now that Auguste was gone, all the ghosts from his past were claiming a hearing.

Damen, who he thought was another one of those, Laurent quickly learned wasn’t at all.

He was just a masochist.

Laurent pushed him away sometimes, even if he didn’t mean to. He liked him, he found him attractive and charming as he did when he was fifteen. But, he couldn’t let him into his life, just like that.

If one thing Laurent was sure of was the undeniable fact that he didn’t have in his possession what Damen needed, or deserved. It was a complete act of selfishness to ask for Damen’s affection when Laurent couldn’t guarantee it back, because he still was completely certain he was defective in some irreparable way.

It was true that Damen made things easier, but also more complicated.

He showered and then got dressed. The university he was attending had called, telling him they’d let him begin his course up until the first week of October, if he wished to continue the program. All this due to the circumstances of his older brother’s passing away.

It wasn’t that he wanted to go back, and less to study English literature, but he needed to get out of the house. It was probable that he wouldn’t be able to sell it until after the holidays, in January. Paper work and inspections took time and it was rare to find someone thinking of the upcoming Christmas vacations that would like to buy a house and one as big as his parent’s. Perhaps, he’d close it down and rent an apartment somewhere, as he had planned before Damen showed up.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he took a look at his hair. He wasn’t fond of mirrors; sometimes he thought he could see faces that weren’t his, staring back at him. But, Damen was right; it was getting longer, his hair. Not sure if it’d truly suit him, though.

Again, he flushed at that thought.

It was infuriating how Damen could break through and enter his mind.

Like the night they had danced together to that old record from the eighties. Laurent couldn’t remember it without feeling something bubbling in his stomach.

_I’ve felt this before, haven’t I?_

He went downstairs and found himself in the middle of an immense solitude. The hole he felt inside, his void, was consuming him. Trying to shake his thoughts away, he started to look for his school satchel. He’d tossed it around after summer break, and considering he stayed in the hospital with Auguste ever day after classes had ended, he had no clue where it could be. It wasn’t in his room, he had checked the day before. It wasn’t in Auguste’s room, either, nor in the boxes of things they had taken out.

So, logically, there was only one place it could be.

Staring at the door of the studio, he took a breath. He hadn’t seen Auguste’s piano since he had fainted. It was a bit absurd to be afraid of an instrument.

More when it was the one his older brother adored the most.

But maybe it was because of that that he felt uneasy. He kept denying himself the fact that Auguste was gone, and that he was selling his most beloved treasure. He couldn’t be selfish when feeling guilty, and couldn’t feel guilty when being selfish. It didn’t make sense.

Nothing made sense anymore.

He entered the studio while holding his breath, like expecting the room to swallow him whole in an instant. But it didn’t. It was a normal room, with the piano in the middle, and a mess of books and music sheets that he had yet to clean.

The satchel was resting in a corner, next to a book with old cleaning tools. He walked fast towards it, wanting to be out of that room as fast as possible. He ignored the presence of the big piano, giving it his back as he leaned over and grabbed the satchel. It was dusty, but it still had his notebooks and pencil case inside. Throwing it over his shoulder, he was ready to leave the room when he stumbled on one of the boxes. It sent a wave of pain to his left foot and he cursed as he bit his lip and heard the sound of something falling on the floor. He looked down, and reached over to pick up a black box.

It was rectangular and light, and he opened it curiously to find his mother’s clavietta completely intact. Like it had been on a time capsule. As a child, he loved the sound of it. It was fun to play, and easy too. Auguste knew a hundred and one nursery rhymes and old folk tales to play on it. They’d build a pillow fort in the living room, and Auguste would play him songs and tell him stories. Made up fairytales or recite a few he’d read in a book, when Laurent was still too small to read.

He felt the tears creeping out the corners of his eyes and he clutched the clavietta against him, out of pure instinct. But he didn’t cry. He stood there for a minute, allowing himself to regain composure, and then stepped out the room.

It was only when he sat down on the couch and opened the melodica case again that he got an idea.

An interesting idea.

 

***

“A clavietta?” Damen blinked and stared at him, not fully understanding.

Laurent nodded and tried to contain the laughter that was rising inside of him. Damen’s bed hair was truly something else. Damen had awoken late and came downstairs when Laurent was cleaning the clavietta. He sat him in the couch next to him and handed him the instrument.

“It’s like a small piano,” Damen said, taking it carefully.

“Technically, it’s like a harmonica,” Laurent said, “But with a keyboard on top.”

“So you have to…blow on it?” Damen asked, raising an eyebrow and studying the mouthpiece on the left end of the pianica.

Laurent said, “You look like you’re trying to solve a math problem.” He paused, “I figured that since the piano isn’t your instrument…we could try with this.”

Damen didn’t say anything, but looked at him surprised. Laurent returned the stare, “I never taught you to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”

“You can play that with this? How does it work?”

“It’s quite easy.” Laurent said, and took the clavietta from Damen’s hands softly. “You have to play the chords and blow at the same time. Some people like to play it horizontally, but my mom taught me to play vertically.” He held the instrument between his hands like a flute, thus proving his point, “Like this.”

Damen was smiling and Laurent blinked, “What is it?”

“You never talk about your mom.”

“I…was too young when she died.” Laurent said, “I’ve told you about her, though.”

“The only thing you’ve ever told me is that she taught you to speak French.” Damen replied.

“Well,” Laurent started, “Auguste probably told you but she was a musician, too. She could play anything, or it seemed that way when I was younger. This clavietta was my grandmother’s. It’s from the fifties, made in France.”

“Were you close to her?” Damen asked, almost in a whisper.

“My grandmother? I never knew her; she died when Auguste was a baby. And with my mom…I guess I could say that I was.” He paused, then, but Damen didn’t pressure him to continue. He waited patiently, until Laurent spoke again, “I used to believe she was the only person in the world who truly understood me.”

“And you don’t think that anymore?”

Laurent inhaled, “After they died, I only had Auguste. I started to forget my parents, even if it wasn’t intentionally. At some point I realized I couldn’t remember their voices anymore as to when I did when they died. I couldn’t remember how they did the things that defined them as my parents, like the way my mom prepared our hot chocolate or the horror legends my dad liked to tell us before bed. Auguste couldn’t either. And, in the end, we had to re-learn to do things ourselves.”

It scared Laurent to think that the same thing could happen now. That, at some point, he’d start to forget Auguste. He could barely swallow against the knot on his throat and he looked down at the pianica. For years, his only companion had been his brother. They spent years having to live with the nasty creature that was their uncle, who didn’t really do anything for them but traumatize them and take their parents’ money away.

He remembered a lonely December night where Laurent had a fever. Their uncle was out all weekend, leaving them alone. It wasn’t that the memories were really vivid, or many, even, because he lost and regain consciousness in fractions of time. He kept throwing up the medicines and shivering in his bed, and Auguste talked to him. Auguste told him stories, trying to make his dreams better. His brother stayed up all night taking care of him, calling the family doctor and putting wet cloths on his forehead. It was after Christmas, maybe, and the streets were empty.

Laurent was ten, and Auguste had just turned fourteen.

It was those things, and many more, that made their connection stronger than it already was. They had the same blood, the same hair, and the same eyes. They were each other’s best friend and companion. The morning after that night, Laurent remembered waking up next to a sleeping Auguste and feeling safe.

Auguste knew him better than he knew himself.

But perhaps, now, there was also another person.

_There’s also you, Damen._

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked…” Damen said.

“Don’t apologize,” He said. Taking the air tube to his mouth, he blew on it and played some chords. It had been a while since he had last played the clavietta, but at least he remembered one song.

Damen smiled brightly and jumped next to him, “I know that song.” Laurent looked at him and shrugged, but didn’t stop playing. He was almost out of air.

“La Valse d’Amélie,” Damen said, proud of himself, “From that French movie you like.”

He stopped after two minutes, and tried to catch up his breath, “Yes. See? It’s easy. Do you remember the notes I taught you on the piano before?”

Damen tilted his head to the side, thinking. “Maybe.”

“Try to play them with this,” Laurent said, and handed him the clavietta. He whispered as he adjusted Damen’s fingers on the keyboard properly, “Hold it like this.”

After a few initials trials and errors, Damen blew into the air tube and managed to play a chord, along with his fingers. He looked at Laurent for approval, who nodded immediately.

Damen had clumsy fingers, no music coordination at all. But it was…enjoyable, to teach him with the clavietta. Some time passed, and in the end, Damen was able to play the full song by himself. It sounded childish, but pretty and upbeat.

“You see,” Damen said, afterwards, “You _can_ teach.”

Laurent couldn’t deny the fact that he felt a strange kind of warmth inside. His violinist heart taking over and dancing around. He was…happy that Damen could play. He had said he wanted to play for Auguste, and even though it took a while, he thought then that it was worth it.

What was that feeling?

It was new, and made him feel uncertain but not in a bad way. Not sad, nor angry.

_What is this?_

He looked at Damen, “Keep it.”

“What?”

“The melodica.” Laurent said, “I want you to have it.”

“Laurent…”

“It’s yours,” he whispered.

_There’s also you, Damen._

_All I give you is yours to keep._

The clavietta was a light, small instrument. Mostly used to teach children. But from all the instruments Laurent had played, this was the happier one. The memories it held were never from sorrow or anguish, they were each more brightly than the last. He wanted Damen to have that.

A happy instrument that brought him joy.

Small notes he could play even if he wasn’t a musician.

Something that, even if their lives were to drift apart once more, would help him remember. Like Laurent remembered his brother, and his mother, and a childhood that was split in two color schemes. Perhaps, this way, Damen could remember something of Laurent that wasn’t disappointing.

Something of sentimental value, he wanted to give Damen that.

Why did he care so much? _Why?_

To create memories, like Polaroid pictures. So that in the future, if they weren’t to be together, and Damen forgot the sound of his voice, he’d remember the valse he played for him that day.

 

***

Paperwork took a while. He said goodbye to Damen and drove to college, to arrange his re-entering to the program. He was a month late, but he was sure he could catch up.

He was walking out of the admissions office when he saw Jord. Both of them walked into each other, accidentally. They stepped back, Jord clutching tightly what seemed to be his camera bag. And Laurent noticed the cigarette he was holding on his right hand. As far as he knew, Jord didn’t smoke.

“Laurent,” Jord blinked, “Are you coming back to school?”

“Possibly,” Laurent said. And then, referring to the cigarette, “That’s new.”

Jord seemed to hesitate, “It is, actually.” He looked down, and leaned on his right foot, “Helps me handle the stress.”

_You didn’t tell me._

He knew he couldn’t say that, for it’d earn him a look. The distance that had been growing each day between him and Jord was mostly his own fault. He had pushed him away till the point Jord simply stopped trying.

It stung, like pouring water on a burn. Only making the damage worse than it already was.

“Did you sell the piano?” Jord asked.

“Not yet.”

Silence.

He was ready to walk away, when Jord said, “You look better, than last time.”

“I feel better,” Laurent said, which was true. He did feel better, sometimes. But he knew that maybe he’d never get to feel the same way he felt back when Auguste was alive. His life had changed, and he was changing too.

There had been a Laurent before Auguste’s death, and there would be another after. It was only that he didn’t know when the process would end, or if it would end, eventually.

Grief was deep and poignant. Probably the worst emotion the human being had to endure. It altered the personality, the person, in an irreparable way.

Jord had felt this too, once.

There was one specific moment Laurent would never be able to forget. When Jord had stood up to him, his grey eyes furious, while defending Aimeric. Every time he saw Jord, he remembered it.

_Fear is a sharp knife_

_Revenge is a stucked arrow_

_There’s nothing more useless._

That was Laurent’s second mistake.

  
  
***

After the chat with Jord, he walked back to the parking lot. However, he stopped on his feet as he saw what seemed to be a teenage boy sitting on the hood of his car. He wasn’t wearing his uniform this time, just jeans and a grey hoodie.

They made eye contact, but Laurent kept walking and turned off the alarm. He was about to open the door when Nicaise stopped him.

“I told you I’m not a teacher,” Laurent said, annoyed.

“And I told you I’m not giving up,” Nicaise said, staring at him.

“Get off.”

“No.”

The silence that followed was interrupted by a growl. Laurent raised an eyebrow, “Was that your stomach?”

Nicaise flushed, “That wasn’t—“

“Are you hungry?” Laurent asked.

After a minute, Nicaise said, “Yes.”

He seemed embarrassed, for some reason. Maybe because he was fourteen. Everything was weird and embarrassing at fourteen.

Nicaise wasn’t his problem, and he should have probably told him to go away. But maybe it was because he was just a boy, that he told him to get in the car. Nicaise looked surprised, but didn’t say anything as Laurent drove them to Mcdonald’s.

After they had settled the food on a table, they sat and Laurent watched Nicaise bite into his burger happily. He hadn’t been in a fast food place in a while. When Auguste was in the hospital, he’d drive after classes and eat alone.

And now, months after, he was back to the same table next to the window, buying food for a teenage boy he didn’t know.

“When was the last time you ate?” Laurent asked.

Nicaise shoved two fries into his mouth, “Next question.”

Laurent shifted, “How did you find me?”

“Your boyfriend told me you were at college.”

“Damen isn’t my boyfriend.”

Nicaise grinned, “The fact that you thought of him when I said ‘boyfriend’ surely tells otherwise.”

Laurent rolled his eyes, “Alright.”

Nicaise kept munching on fries and drinking his soda, Laurent only watching him.

Why was this boy trying to catch his attention?

Why was he so sure Laurent could teach him? And why did he want that help?

He had known Auguste. Auguste had been his tutor for one summer. What had happened then? Why now?

Why a violinist?

“At what age did you start to play the violin?” Laurent asked.

“I was eight,” Nicaise said.

“So you have six years playing.” Nicaise nodded.

“You think that’s enough to win the Royal?” Laurent asked.

“No, I know it isn’t. That’s why I want you to mentor me,” Nicaise leaned back on his chair, “There’s going to be a gala concert, for soloists. Come see me play.”

Laurent’s eyes widened slightly but he made himself suppress it immediately before Nicaise could notice. A gala concert. He had been invited many times, but only had played once. With the orchestra, while he was still in Charcy.

With Aimeric.

_I’m going to regret this._

“I’ll go,” Laurent said, “Impress me, and I’ll teach you. But if you don’t, you’ll go back the way you came. I don’t have time to waste with amateurs.”

“It’s a deal.” Nicaise offered his hand and Laurent shook it.

  
  
***

“Wow,” Damen said.

Laurent turned to look at him, “What is it?”

“I hadn’t been in this hall since the last time I saw you play in high school.”

“When we played Shostakovich?” Laurent asked.

“Yes. I was sitting in the middle with Nikandros and Auguste.” Damen smiled and started to eye the program.

Laurent remembered, of course. He remembered because he had felt amazing while playing that waltz. It was perhaps the moment he had felt most incredible in his entire life. And he remembered his stomach doing flips as he saw Damen between the public.

He couldn’t believe he was so embarrassing, at fifteen.

“Apparently he’ll be the one of the last ones,” Damen said, pointing at Nicaise’s picture in the program. He didn’t have a friendly face.

Why did teenagers always look so angry?

“Try not to fall asleep, please.” Laurent said.

Damen made a surprise face, “Me? Fall asleep while listening to the glorious tunes of Beethoven and Mozart? Never.”

Laurent chuckled, “Did you study that phrase last night or was it spontaneous?”

Damen faked being offended, “I can remember the names of musicians, you know, it’s not that hard.”

“Alright, tell me the name of my favorite violinist.” Laurent said.

“Uh…” he bit his lip, “Kreisler?”

Laurent shook his head, “Try again.”

“The one named like a woman. Camille.”

Laurent laughed, “It’s not Camille Saint-Saëns.” Then, he added, with a smile, “And just so you know, his first name was Charles.”

“Really? Then why did they call him Camille?”

Laurent shrugged, “You give up?”

“No! Give me a minute,” Damen said. He looked down, trying to think. “It’s the Russian one, right?”

“Yes, what’s his name?”

Damen groaned, “Oh please, I already told you his nationality.”

“The game was about names, Damen.” Laurent said.

After two minutes of deep thinking, Damen gave up. “Okay, fine, I don’t remember his name. But I know he wrote Swan Lake and you like it a lot.”

“The name was Tchaikovsky. I won.” Laurent said, “You owe me an ice cream.”

“I never promised you anything.”

“It’s not my fault you’re terrible at games.”

“ _Tricheur._ ” _Cheater._

“ _Mauvais perdant._ ”   _Bad loser._

They exchanged a funny look. Teasing, full of harmless mischief. They stopped talking when the concert started. Surprisingly, Damen didn’t fall asleep. He was paying full attention, or at least trying to. The musicians were all teenagers, and all violinists. Playing different songs from different composers, never repeating the same twice. Gala concerts were supposed to be fun, a friendly match before the competitions started and all those kids tried to kill each other for the first place.

Some of them were good, their performances remarkable. It wasn’t impressive, though. They didn’t have talent, not all of them. Most were just the product of months of effort and private classes with an expensive tutor. For a more experienced musician, it could be rather boring to sit there and listen to one soulless performance after another.

Laurent noticed all the mistakes, even if he didn’t want to. He knew when the tempo was wrong and when the accompanist was taking over the spotlight because the violin was being too weak. He noticed when they got lost in the notes and couldn’t do more than continue and try to go back to the score.

Most of those young violinists probably wouldn’t make it to the Royal competition. And even if they did, a good part would be disqualified in the first rounds. It wasn’t an easy contest. He had entered one and won gold, but not everyone had what it takes to make it there and win.

You could pick the wrong song and it would bring you down. You could wake up with a fever that day and play horribly. It wasn’t all easy.

He wasn’t sure whether Nicaise or not had that strength and the talent to do it. He was persistent and smart, but in the world of musicians, sometimes that wasn’t enough. Not everyone could make people feel things, or shake the world under their feet as Auguste liked to say. It required a certain wit and life experience.

And he hated that he was thinking like a teacher.

He sounded like his brother.

Before he could continue, though, Nicaise and his accompanist walked up stage. He was dressed in a navy suit, and the pianist, a girl around his age, was dressed in a violet dress.

They bowed to the public and took their places. He started first, a single, perfect note. He moved the bow gracefully, and then the pianist followed. The starting was slow, mostly played only by the violin.

Laurent recognized the song. Beethoven’s _Violin Sonata No. 9_ also called _Kreutzer Sonata_ . They were playing the first movement, the furious _Adagio sostenuto – Presto_. In A major, combined with shifts in A minor. It was an angry song, desperate and jealous. The piano and violin were fighting, creating a hellish universe for all of them to see. It reminded Laurent immediately of the novel by Leo Tolstoy. In the final part of the book, the main character goes mad, twisted by the rage and jealousy he felt towards the violinist his wife was cheating on him with. He kills his wife, and says that music is powerful enough to change one’s internal state to a foreign one. The song, although beautiful, is seen as the main enemy.  After listening to the violinist and his wife play it, he starts to change.

Laurent had enjoyed the book, although the main character was just a psychopath to his eyes. Believing that the carnal love, the instinct of sex was the root of problems in human relationships. Thus, leading to kill his wife out of jealousy, after the cheating.

He was sure everyone in the hall could feel the same fury he was feeling. The piano and violin were matched in difficulty, the emotional scope filling the air and his minds.

It was demanding, both physically and mentally, to play that song. And yet, a fourteen years old boy was playing it with a straight face. Without displaying any of what he was feeling inside, the violin doing the job for him on its entirety.

The song lasted almost fifteen minutes, but they were going faster, a bit out of tempo. Even so, it was impressive. It was…amazing.

He heard Damen whispering next to him, “Oh my god.”

_Indeed._

Nicaise had talent. This wasn’t only the results of hours of practice; this was pure, raw talent coming from the core of his being. This was Nicaise.

Furious, fast, demanding, beautiful yet angry and desperate. Constantly changing, shifting, fighting for dominance. Sophisticated, yet harsh. Exceptional, but young.

He made mistakes, a few. But corrected them on the way, making them seem like extra notes and not a failure.

Nicaise wasn’t the second violinist Aimeric had been, and he wasn’t the first violinist Laurent was. He wasn’t inferior or superior; he was a different kind of musician. One of those whose soul was held by the instrument that once chose them.

He was like Auguste.

This realization made his heart stop. And suddenly, he felt alone in the hall. Surrounded by nothing but darkness, the only light and sound coming from the stage. He couldn’t stop watching, or listening. And he felt the first goosebumps, his body gone cold. His fingers aching for his instrument.

His mind, his heart. All the musician parts inside of him, the violinist that lived within him, were awaking again.

He felt the moment Damen slid his hand in his, like if he knew the amount of emotions that were coming at Laurent all at once, overwhelming him. He squeezed his hand softly, not giving his mind enough time to react to what that meant. He couldn’t focus on anything else that wasn’t the music coming alive from Nicaise’s violin.

He opened his eyes as the song came to an end. Nicaise finishing with an anguish coda as Beethoven had done once. The conclusion to a musical dementia that only he could perform.

Nicaise and the pianist bowed again, trying to catch their breaths, and the public erupted in an standing ovation.

This was the boy he was going to mentor.

 

***

When the gala concert was over, and Laurent had understood the reason why they had invited Nicaise to play, Damen and Laurent met him outside.

He was back to dressing in jeans and a normal shirt, saying goodbye to his pianist friend, --who had also been exceptional and reminded Laurent of Victoria—before turning to look at them.

He saw the expression in Laurent’s face, like he could read it easily, and then grinned, “So? Liked what you heard?”

Laurent said, “It was adequate….for a mediocre.”

Damen’s eyes widened, but said nothing. Laurent was grateful for it.

Before Nicaise could protest, Laurent spoke again, “If you want, though, I suppose I could make you play somewhat decently in time for the competition.”

Nicaise’s eyes lit up, and he beamed, “For real?”

Laurent nodded, “For real. Come to my house tomorrow after class. And say goodbye to your social life, if you have one.”

Nicaise said nothing, just exchanged a joyful look with Damen, who started smiling like the big idiot he was.

Perhaps this could go wrong, but it had the same percentage of it going right, too. So he would do what he had been doing since Auguste died and everything started to mess in his life.

He would risk it.

And he would make Nicaise win gold.


	18. Lycoris radiata

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Happy Saturday, guys<3 I hope you all had a good one :)  
> Here's a new chapter for you. I hope it isn't too strange or boring. I had fun while writing it so I hope you enjoy it as well!<3
> 
> As always thanks to Ellen, the most amazing beta and person in this world, and thanks to all of you who comment, send me messages on tumblr or tweet me. You continue to make my days<3
> 
> P.S. Title meaning: Lycoris radiata, also known as the flower of hell. They bloom in autumn, often in response to heavy rainfall.

Auguste held his hand as they walked.

He smiled at him, but Laurent knew he was sad. Sometimes, Auguste was sad. Laurent listened to him cry in the shower. He wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to hide, but he didn’t know how to.

They walked together through the graves and Auguste let him carry the bouquet of white and violet lilies they had bought for their parents.

Laurent always picked lilies. Auguste would ask him each time, but Laurent always picked the same kind of flowers. The color was the only thing to vary. He didn’t know why, though. They were the flowers that felt like his parents, if that made sense.

He was nine years old, soon to be ten. And even though he missed his parents, he wanted them to know he was fine with Auguste. Even though their uncle was mean, and did bad things, Auguste never broke his promise that he would protect him. He’d never failed, not even once.

So, each year when they visited their parents’ graves, Laurent tried to talk to them. He wanted them to know that he didn’t feel lonely with Auguste by his side, that even though he missed them, they both missed them a lot, he was okay. They were okay.

When they reached the graves, his brother let go off his hand. They both knelt down and arranged the lilies in the vase. It was sunny, the beginning of spring. He wondered why the world looked so happy, when they were both so sad. He hated to see Auguste so sad.

Laurent stood up, but Auguste remained on his knees. He covered his face with his hands and Laurent felt a knot on his throat. He didn’t know what to do, and he felt as if he would cry as well. But he shouldn’t, not now. He had to be strong for Auguste.

Auguste was always strong for him, so now it was his turn.

Laurent hugged him tightly, as tight as he could. Auguste let out a gasp and after a minute, hugged Laurent back. Then, he whispered something he didn’t understand. Even though the words were clear, the meaning didn’t make sense to him at the time.

But they would, someday.

_I’ll be your shelter._

After a while, they both stood up and Auguste took his hand again, swinging them as they walked back.

 

***

Everything was dark.

That was the first thing he noticed. Everything, from the ceiling to the floor and the walls were pitch black. The second thing he noticed was the water on his feet, starting on his ankles. It was black, as well. He could hear the echo of small drops falling down into the water, like if he was in some kind of underwater cave.

He was cold, and lost. How did he end up there? All alone? Perhaps, he had peered into the wrong rabbit hole. Like a poor misguided Alice, ending up in a darkened, twisted version of Wonderland. He hated the feeling of the icy, viscose water on his bare feet. He hated that he was feeling as if he was covered in dirt.

Feeling a presence behind him, he turned around, but no one was there. And yet, he could hear a voice. Or rather voices, calling his name. Whispering, chanting words he couldn’t make out, and his name, like a slow slur. He started to walk slowly, in no specific direction, trying to find the source of the voices.

Who was there? Who was talking to him?

The voices grew louder with each step he took.

_Are you afraid, Laurent?_

_Come here. Come closer._

Every single cell in his body was reacting, telling him to run away. But if there was one thing Laurent had learnt was that you must never let them see you are afraid. Fear paralyzes you in the worst moments, and acknowledging it wouldn’t help, but make it worse. It’d make them know they have advantage over you; fear was what they used to control you. If you never gave in to fear, you were most likely to get out of these situations.

Like with the spiders, once. Don’t let them see you’re afraid.

He repeated that to himself at least twenty times, fast, like a mantra in his head, as he walked through the dark cave.

And then, the voices changed.

They were tangled, mixed with each other, desperately calling for him.

_Laurent. Laurent. Laurent._

He didn’t realize when his legs had started moving on their own, a conscience inside his own mind that he couldn’t control, making decisions for him. He didn’t feel like he was just one person, but that there were two of him. And that scared him to death.

There was something chasing him, that’s all he knew. He was running, trying to repeat the mantra now useless as he went through dark passages. He fell several times on the dark water, only to get up as fast as he could, and running again.

He had to get out of that place.

He wanted to call for Auguste, for someone to help him. Why was he always so alone?

What had he done, to end up like this?

At some point, the voices stopped. The only sound left was the echo of his uneven, rapid breathing. And the scenery changed.

Inside the empty and dark, almost black cave, he found something. He stopped running when he saw what seemed to be a big tree. Except that, instead of leaves, it was full of red flowers, with a particular shape.  Blood red flowers, falling like in autumn.

The flowers of hell.

They represented all your actions in the human world once you’ve died.

Underneath the tree, was the source of the water at his feet. There was a pond, and he looked down to see his own reflection. He gasped, in fear and surprise when he saw the flesh. A body was emerging from the water, a rotten, bloated corpse floating on it, his mouth stuffed with red flowers.

It was Auguste.

He took a step back. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. Nothing came out from his mouth. No sound at all. He was trembling, his heart beating so fast he thought he wouldn’t survive it. The second body emerged then, floating next to his brother’s.

_No._

He felt his own heart breaking, becoming dust, like broken glass.  He went to his knees and felt himself out of air. He was gasping, choking, almost hyperventilating.

_Please. No. Not you. Not you._

It was Damen. His mouth, stuffed with red flowers as well. His eyes shut, his face swollen and bloated.

_You did this,_ said the voices.

_You did this. It’s your fault._

Aimeric’s body was the next one, still in his Charcy uniform and with a bruise on his cheek, hell flowers coming out of his mouth. Jord was next to him, Nikandros close by.

Even Nicaise, dressed in the suit he had worn to the gala concert. But his blue eyes were open, and they were staring at him, lifeless. They looked at him like if in his last moments, he had been demanding answers. He still wanted answers.

But they were all dead.

Floating like Ophelias in a canvas full of flowers, like if the six of them were part of a portrait of corrupted innocence an artist was about to paint. The tragic ending to a play.

_This is not real_

_This is not real._

_This is not real._

He was crying, inevitably. His own tears were black, like ink dripping from his eyes. And he could hear an elegy, playing in the distance. The soft notes of one of Rachmaninoff’s laments for the dead. A piano tune to match his broken soul, each note echoing with the falling of his tears.

The voices spoke again _, You did this. It’s your fault._

_And now we will get rid of you._

He wanted to say that he hadn’t done this. He wanted to make the voices shut up, he wanted to be out of that place. But there was nothing he could do, and if there was, by any chance, some small possibility left, what was it worth, anymore?

They were all dead.

Again, he felt that dangerous presence behind him, and he turned around on instinct. Fear beating on his heart like a drum. He froze as he saw what he was running from. He froze, because he knew that person. It was a someone, not a something.

Or was it a something, and not a someone?

It was himself. A younger version of himself.

He was wearing his Charcy uniform, and he looked at him rather bored. Like if he had better things to do than chasing an adult Laurent around that cave. He seemed to care little about the corpses, for he didn’t even take a glance towards the pond. Laurent stood up; facing the boy he had been once. His hair was shorter, his eyes unafraid.

The boy said, “Would you like to try death?”

With this, he pushed him into the water. Laurent fell in the pond between the corpses. He was falling, sinking like a rock in the ocean. He needed air, but his nose and mouth were filling up with red flowers. The last thing he saw was his own face staring at him from above the pond. As he fell deeper, it got darker. Like the cave.

He was sinking, sinking, sinking…

_We will get rid of you._

His movements were slow, no matter how he tried, he couldn’t go up to the surface. So, soon he stopped trying.

And the nightmare ended where the others began.

  
  
***

He woke up with a loud gasp.

He sat up, breathing hard and with his heart hammering inside his body. He was covered in sweat, and tears. He felt sick and scared, his chest contracting painfully each time he tried to inhale. For a minute there, he thought he would throw up.

“Laurent. Laurent, it’s okay. It was a nightmare.”

He looked up, his senses coming back to the real world. He was in his room; Damen was sitting next to him on the bed, looking worried as ever. Laurent didn’t hesitate to hug him, not even for a minute. The image of Damen’s rotten body was still inside his mind, the red flowers coming out his mouth.

“Damen,” he whispered, as he gripped him tightly. Burying his face in his shoulder, breathing him in. He smelled like the soap Laurent kept in the bathroom, clean sweat and his cologne. _Damen_. It was so familiar… He was real, he was alive and he was there with him.

Damen held him, his hand rubbing his back softly, affectionately. “You were…you screamed. I tried to wake you up for a while, but you wouldn’t.” A pause, then, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Laurent shook his head. He couldn’t speak. He felt like he was still inside that world. That dark cave. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he’d choke out red flowers.

“Okay,” Damen whispered, while moving his hand to brush Laurent’s hair, “Okay.”

“I’m not going back to sleep,” Laurent managed to say, his voice shaky. He couldn’t go back there.

“Okay, then,” Damen said, “I’ll stay up with you.”

“Will you?”

Damen pulled away for a minute, and Laurent gave in, even if he didn’t want to. Damen smiled and said, “Of course.”

The look in his eyes was gentle, caring. And Laurent’s eyes widened slightly as he recognized that expression. It was the same face Damen wore while they were together in high school. It was so profound, full to the top with a feeling Laurent couldn’t identify yet.

Damen was always there for him, and with him. He was always smiling, even when Laurent screwed up constantly because of his lack of empathy. He laughed and listened to Laurent’s music and also bandaged his fingers.

Damen was…

He was important.

Running a hand through his hair, Laurent took a deep breath. Trying to calm down his anxiety. He looked around again, focusing on the things in his room. The TV in front of the bed, the desk with his notebooks, the nightstand where his cup of tea from last night still rested on.

This was reality.

“Do you want some water? Tea? Milk?”

Laurent said, “You sound like you live here and I’m the guest.”

Damen yawned, “Might as well. Invite me to move in, already.” He said, in a teasing tone.

“I can’t deal with your snoring, so no.”

Damen blinked, “I don’t snore.” And then, biting his bottom lip, “Do I?”

“You do. Milk would be good, by the way.”

Of course Damen didn’t, but Laurent wasn’t going to tell him that. He smiled as he saw Damen’s confused face when he left the room and went downstairs to the kitchen.

Alone in his room, he turned on the TV and hugged his pillow, like he did when he was distressed. He tried to normalize his breathing again, and his heartbeat.

That had been the worst nightmare in his life, or at least to the date. It had been completely disturbing, like a story from H.P. Lovecraft or Joe Hill. Something that he could have never imagined while being awake, but that his subconscious had performed for him.

_Would you like to try death?_

Why had he said that? Was there a hidden meaning he didn’t understand? Or was it just pure terror, coming from his deepest worries? It had felt so real, so true. If he focused enough, he could recall the smell of the cave. Like humid, and moss, and salt.

He didn’t know the answers, and he was too tired and shaken to think of it now. He swapped channels until he found a French movie that seemed good. It had already started, but there was an orchestra director and that was enough to get Laurent’s attention. At least, it distracted his mind from the horrors of the realm of his dreams.

Damen came back not long after, carrying two cups of warm milk with cinnamon. They sat together on Laurent’s bed, their legs tangling as they shifted often while watching the movie. Damen fell asleep a couple times, and woke up to check on Laurent, who insisted on him going to bed. Damen refused each time, even though he was helplessly drifting off to sleep.

Laurent was thankful for it, to say the least. The movie ended around five in the morning. It was raining a little, drops hitting the windows softly. It rained a lot in Arles during the fall. He turned off the TV and looked at Damen, sleeping soundly. Then, he lay down and pulled the blankets over him. It was warm, with Damen on his bed.

After Auguste had passed, the house…was always so cold.

But Damen was warm. And that was the only thing that made sense at the moment. So he stayed there, closer to him, seeking warmth. For a minute, he saw Damen’s eyes closed and he remembered the nightmare. It sent shivers to his body, and he did something he shouldn’t have, but that he needed, at the moment.

He slid his hand in Damen’s, carefully, trying not to wake him up. And Damen didn’t, but made a sound and moved, holding Laurent’s hand back, entwining their fingers together.

That was more than enough to make Laurent’s heart calm down, and also for his cheeks and ears turn red. He lay his head back down on the pillow and closed his eyes.

 

***

Teaching Nicaise was different from what Laurent had expected. It wasn’t better nor was it worse, but simply different. Every day, from four in the afternoon to seven, Nicaise would show up for his daily lessons.

In a sense, he was easy to teach. In spite of his rebellious nature, he listened to what Laurent had to say. He didn’t talk back when Laurent pointed out his mistakes, and he took practice very seriously. He was disciplined when he wanted to be, and it seemed to Laurent that it only happened when it was related to the violin, for which apparently Nicaise was very fond of.

However, this also made things more difficult for Laurent. Nicaise was a diamond in the rough; he segregated talent like teenage hormones. If guided properly, Nicaise could possibly grow up to be a great violinist. Maybe even a director in the future. These years of formation were key to the future development of a musician.

But, even if Laurent was an exceptional violinist, he didn’t know how to teach others. Not quite. He didn’t think he was suitable for the job. What if he made a mistake and dragged Nicaise with him?

For the first few days, they had focused on basic training. Laurent had noticed from the gala concert that Nicaise had a really bad posture. And the first week he had tried really hard to correct it, much to Nicaise’s disdain.

_“You have a terrible posture,” Laurent said, “By the time you’re ninety, you won’t have a spine anymore. Stand up straight; put these books on your head.”_

_“You have to be fucking kidding me.” Nicaise said, raising his eyebrows._

_Laurent handed him the books, “You bet your ass that I am not.”_

_Nicaise scoffed and crossed his arms, “This is ridiculous. How am I gonna win the Royal while playing around with books?”_

_Laurent crossed his arms as well, mirroring his position, “How are you going to win the Royal when you have a back injury for playing the violin like you’re the Hunchback of Notre Dame?”_

_Nicaise rolled his eyes, and Laurent glared at him, “Roll those eyes again and I’ll make you carry an encyclopedia next time.”_

During those first lessons, Nicaise’s posture improved significantly. Laurent made him stand up still while carrying the books and trying to keep a high note. It had worked, however, and his sound did improve too. Then, they mostly only played basics, easy notes combinations and short songs to warm up.

Just the day before, they had gotten the inscriptions to the Royal. Laurent had signed as Nicaise’s tutor and they had a long list of the approved repertory for this year’s. He had thought in maybe making Nicaise play one of Tchaikovsky, a waltz…

“I’ve chosen a song already,” said Nicaise, snapping Laurent out of his thoughts.

They were in the studio. Laurent sitting on the piano, trying to make sense of his brother’s old arrangements. Nicaise was lying underneath; his light brown curls sprawled all over the floor. He was reading scores, looking for a song to play on the first round of the Royal.  It reminded Laurent of how he liked to do the same thing. How Auguste and him spent hours underneath that piano.

“Is that so?” Laurent said, “What do you want to play?”

Nicaise handed him the music score, without moving from his lying spot and Laurent took the paper.

Reading the title, he asked. “Why did you choose this song?”

“Because the first round will be on Halloween,” Nicaise said, and shrugged, “I like it. It’s powerful.”

“It is also technically challenging, you have a little less than two weeks to learn to play it perfectly.”

There was a silence, and then Nicaise said, in a voice softer than Laurent had ever heard from him, “I’ve never had the chance to play it.”

“Do you not play in Charcy’s orchestra?” Laurent asked.

“No. I rather be a soloist.” Nicaise replied, “It’s never suited me; team work, that is.”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to be that kind of person,” Laurent agreed. And then, “Unfortunately, this arrangement is for orchestra.”

Nicaise crawled off the piano and looked up at Laurent, “Can you not arrange it for solo violin?”

He wasn’t sure, to be completely honest. Auguste was the one to make their arrangements, he composed music for orchestras, for pianists and violinists and saxophonists and symphonies and pianicas. This wouldn’t have been a problem for him.

But Laurent didn’t compose, or at least not anymore. He had done it for a while, back when he was younger, but had desisted at some point. And then he was sometimes too lazy to make arrangements, and if he needed to, he could depend on Auguste to help him.

Now, however, he was alone with this kid. And even when he had an overflowing talent, he wouldn’t win the Royal alone. It was strange that Laurent wanted him to win, because he had just met him and Nicaise wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a stranger. It was so…oxymoron.

“It’s faster to look for one online,” Laurent said. “Have you decided who will be your accompanist?”

“The girl from the gala concert, Vanessa. She’s in my class.”

“Okay,” Laurent said, “Get up. We’ll start practicing.”

Nicaise obeyed and stretched before taking his violin out of its case. Just as Laurent was going to speak up, there was a knock on the door. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was Damen who was entering. Nobody else had the key to his house.

“May I interrupt you, Your Highness?”

Laurent felt his lips curving into a smile but he made it disappear before he turned to look towards the door, “You already have.”

Damen smiled, “Can I talk to you for a minute?” then, he looked past the piano to Nicaise, who was watching them, “Hello Nicaise.”

“Damianos,” Nicaise said with a nod.

“Google the soloist score,” Laurent said to Nicaise, before getting up from the piano and leaving the studio with Damen.

“Since when does he call me Damianos?” Damen asked, rising an eyebrow.

Laurent shrugged, “I certainly don’t know.” And then, “What is it? I thought you weren’t coming today.”

“I brought you something,” Damen said, smiling. He looked excited, and Laurent couldn’t help but think of that day.

May 27th.

_“I brought you something,” Damen said softly, presenting him the blue box. It had a silver bow on top. A gift. “It might not be perfect, but I hope you like it the same.”_

That had been the first time Damen had given him something. The shattered music box was still in his room. Inside the second drawer of his night stand, locked with key. He could never get rid of it, even if he tried.

There was not a day Laurent didn’t wish he hadn’t broken it. That music box was special. It was beautiful and the melody soft and calming. Sometimes, he felt like he needed it. When he was sixteen, he’d lay on his bed and hold it in his hands, listening to the music and watching the small violinist dance around. It had become a personal routine, a short space of time he had for himself between all the different chaoses from the real world.

A little sanctuary, like his brother’s piano.

Then, a new thought hit him. Was it okay, to get rid of Auguste’s sanctuary? Was it fair? When his own violin had been destroyed, and then his music box, wouldn’t he be doing the same to his brother, if he sold the piano?

He didn’t want to hurt Auguste, but he felt like he was. He was dead, long gone, but it still didn’t feel right. Flashbacks from his dream went through his mind; Auguste’s corpse stuffed with red flowers.

Laurent’s sins.

“Something?” Laurent asked.

“Wait here,” Damen said and disappeared through the hall into the living room. Laurent blinked, and couldn’t help but follow him out of curiosity.

Was it a gift? He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but again he felt that odd feeling in his stomach. A bit excited, a bit happy. Suddenly he was a teen again.

However, his expression changed when he saw what Damen had brought him.

It was…a cat.

A kitten, to be more precise. It was a bicolor ragdoll, coffee and white with big, blue eyes. It was really small, to the point he was very comfortable between Damen’s hands, as he presented the creature to Laurent.

Laurent looked up to see Damen, who was biting his lower lip uncomfortably, “A cat?”

“I know. I know, but listen,” Damen said, “I just…want to make sure you know that what I told you before it’s true. Laurent, you don’t have to grieve alone. And,” he seemed to doubt for a minute, before continuing, “I know your nightmares are awful. And I know some nights I won’t be able to be there with you, and some others you won’t want me to be, either. But I don’t want you to be alone when that happens. You shouldn’t be.”

When Laurent didn’t say anything, Damen stroke the cat’s chin with his finger. It purred pleasantly, “I…thought it’d be good, if you had a pet.”

“I—“ Laurent started. He wasn’t sure how he should proceed. He wasn’t angry with Damen, at least not much. How could he take care of someone else when he could barely take care of himself?

Again, he remembered the odd nightmare. He didn’t need to add a pet to the pond. He was toxic.

“I don’t want it,” Laurent said, “Take it back.”

Damen looked back at him sadly. The saddest Laurent had seen him in a while. “But, he doesn’t have a family. They told me in the shelter that he was separated from his mom and siblings, and then abandoned a few days after he was born.”

“Damen,” Laurent said, it was hard, to make the words come out, “I can’t take care of it.”

“Yes you can. I know you can.”

“I can’t.”

_I can’t hurt someone else again._

Damen sighed, “When are you going to understand,” He stepped towards Laurent and took one of his hands, “That you’re not as horrible as you think you are?”

Laurent was taken aback. Again, and again, Damen always did the same to him. He surprised him with his actions, with his words. Because anyone else would have already left. Anyone else would be mad at him, yell. Anyone else, but not Damen. Never Damen.

“I’ve never had a pet before,” Laurent whispered, and extended his hands. Damen understood, and handed him the small kitten.

He looked very lonely, like he had seen too much already for his young age. His eyes were big and curious but also cautious. Laurent had always liked cats, but it seemed like Auguste was allergic, so they’d never get one. He was beautiful, though, with a long tail and a white stomach. Laurent pet him softly, his heart fluttering as the cat closed his eyes in pleasure.

Damen watched with a smile on his face, “Oh yeah, he totally hates you.” Laurent glared, making Damen laugh. “You’re going to get wrinkles earlier if you continue to be so grumpy.”

“Shut up.” Laurent said, watching the cat grab onto one of his fingers and biting softly, playfully. “Does it have a name yet?”

Damen shook his head, “It’s yours. You can pick one.”

Holding up the cat with both hands, Laurent stared at it. The cat stared back, not missing even the smallest of Laurent’s movements. And then, Laurent was able to hear it.

The sound of destiny. The song musicians heard when they found their soulmates. Like the Chopin melody Laurent heard when he saw Damen. Like the Mozart piece Auguste gave to Victoria. He thought that he must be going crazy, for this was just a cat. But he could hear it perfectly inside of him, his violinist heart singing to _Spring_ from _The Four Seasons._

_Maybe those people’s hearts called for musicians, in a way or another._

Laurent frowned and felt himself shiver, and the cat licked it’s paw.

_Who are you?_ He wanted to ask.

“Vivaldi,” Laurent said, looking at Damen, “We can call him Vivi.”

 

***

It was a month.

Laurent couldn’t sleep during the night, so he stayed up staring at the ceiling. Not moving an inch of his body, feeling as if he moved, he’d lose control.

It was a month.

He understood why he had nightmares, and always woke up at the same hour every single night. Auguste died the eighteenth of September at 3 in the morning. And when Laurent had nightmares, he usually woke up around that hour. Never earlier and never an hour late.

Perhaps it was because his subconscious remembered the call. The incoherent words he couldn’t make out because he was still asleep when they told him, _He’s gone_. The mind, the soul remembered the exact hour they started to break. The moment everything changed.

He also remembered what he thought as his world went down and he was pushed into an abyss of sorrow.

_Why wasn’t I there?_

Thirty days later, he was awake on his bed. Alive yet being mentally dismembered. Cold and tired and with a cat moving under the blankets, trying to untangle himself from them and failing in the process.

Life changed, it kept changing every day, and his brother couldn’t see it.

_Auguste, I have a cat now._

_I named him Vivaldi, like the violinist._

_Damen gave him to me last week. He’s an orphan, like us. Like me. He’s alone; I figured we could be alone together._

_I miss you._

Laurent gave in and sighed as he lifted up the blankets and took Vivi out of his mess. He whispered, “How did you tangle yourself up like that?”

Vivi stretched and crawled on Laurent, his still very small paws pressing against Laurent’s chest as he moved.

“No, don’t do that.” Laurent said, trying to stop Vivi from laying down on him, “No. Vivaldi.” He took him in his hands and lifted him up in the air. The cat meowed weakly, wishing to be put down, but Laurent stared at him. He said, “I hate you.”

That was a lie.

Vivi stared back at him, blinked. Laurent couldn’t tell if he understood, “I hate you. You’re an annoying thing and I wish you were gone. Go away and leave me alone.”

They stared at each other for another minute and Laurent put him down. Finally, Vivi snuggled against Laurent’s neck and closed his eyes. Laurent let out a shaky breath and felt the tears slipping away from his eyes.

It was a month.

“This is why people hurt you,” He said, but he didn’t know who he was talking to. Vivaldi, perhaps. Auguste, if he was listening. Damen, although he wasn’t there. “You shouldn’t be kind to the people who are mean to you.”

_I wasn’t there._

_I left you alone._

He walked away from his brother as he walked away from Damen before. As he walked away from Jord and isolated himself from every connection he had to the world.

And yet.

Auguste brought them together again, even against Laurent’s will. He didn’t want their compassion or their pity; he didn’t want to fix what was broken.

Or so he thought.

Jord forgave him. Damen came back. Nicaise showed up from nowhere and Vivi was snuggling up against him like if he knew Laurent was suffering, like if that tiny animal was trying to comfort him. He couldn’t understand why. It felt as though if Auguste was taking care of him, because these were the kind of things that Auguste did when he was alive; he gave him friends, he gave him music and helped him find a way to fix his mistakes. He comforted him, planned things out of nowhere, forgave him and always, always came back to him somehow.

It was a month.

Auguste was his older brother, and he protected Laurent from day one. But Laurent had not been able to return the favor.

Laurent turned on his side and closed his eyes, Vivi sleeping next to him. He whispered as low as he could, it was more like moving his lips than making an actual sound.

“I didn’t mean that, Vivi.”

 

***

Damen knocked on the door early. Neither of them said anything. No greetings and no jokes or witty quotes. Damen sat on the living room as Laurent finished getting dressed. When he was ready, they left. Driving in silence until they got to the cemetery.

Laurent bought sunflowers. They reminded him of Auguste. They were yellow and bright in spite of the dark clouds in the sky.

Damen and him remained silent as they walked between the graves. He knew the path perfectly by now; Auguste had been buried next to their parents.

Back to the day of the funeral, Laurent had thought he would never come back here. He always said the same thing, tried to convince himself that he wouldn’t. But in the end, it was useless. He stopped in front of the stone, his pulse speeding as he read his brother’s name on it.

 

_Auguste de Vere._

_1992-2016_

_Beloved brother and musician._

 

He knelt down and placed half of the sunflowers bouquet on one of the vases, Damen placed the other half. He stayed down on his knees, trying to stop his hands from trembling. Damen stood up before him, and Laurent knew he was crying.

Who comforted them in their mourning when they only had each other? When neither of them could help the other, what happened then?

They broke down?

They collided?

Laurent stood up, and he looked at the sky when the first drops fell on his head. It looked like the beginning of a storm. He placed a small bouquet of lilies on his parent’s graves. Then, Damen cleaned his face with his sleeve and offered his hand to Laurent.

That was a question.

The question that had been lingering between them for weeks now, and that both of them had avoided. Because acknowledging things made them real, and both of them had hurt each other enough.

Laurent took his hand, Damen squeezed. That was an answer.

He was about to start walking back when Damen stopped him. Victoria was watching them. For a second, he almost didn’t recognize her. Her long, brown curls were gone. She had cut her hair, almost of all of it. Replacing it with short, straight hair, barely falling on her shoulders.

She was carrying sunflowers.

They heard more steps, and the three of them turned to see Jord and Nikandros, dressed in black, approaching them. When they saw them all in Auguste’s grave, they stopped.

They were carrying sunflowers.

There was the sound of thunders, and it finally started to rain. Neither of them moved, as though if they couldn’t. Laurent stared at all of them, shuddering with the memories of his dream. He felt someone behind him and jerked back, turning around with a feeling of déjà vu.

But it was Nicaise, dressed in his Charcy uniform, holding a single sunflower.

Laurent squeezed Damen’s hand back, and felt Auguste’s presence between all of them. He felt them, all of them, the marks Auguste had left in this world. By now, the six of them were wet from heads to toes.

The wind was rising, like it did when his life was going to change. Like it did when the impossible became possible. He remembered Auguste’s graduation speech, the words resounding in his head like bells.

_It is the infinite memories of so many days shared with a group of people that you could have only met here._

_It is the connections._


	19. Tondichtung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a new chapter for you<3  
> I have nothing new to report. It took me quite a while to finish this chapter, and although I know it's not my best, I hope you like it the same.   
> Thanks to Ellen, my awesome beta and partner in crime. I love you so much<3 And as always, thanks to all of you who continue to read this story and leave comments and kudos. You're the best. 
> 
> Enjoy, and see you next week!

On his good days, Auguste spent most of his time in the children’s ward of the hospital.

It was often when Laurent found him there, playing with the children. The doctors and nurses loved him, as well as the parents and relatives of the sick infants. He brought joy to all of them, including Laurent.

He liked seeing his brother happy, even if it was doing silly things and running around the halls during the first stages of his illness. Once he had started to decay, he had settled for telling stories and playing music. He started some sort of music group, and taught the children to play the flute and the pianica. Laurent brought them audio-books and crayons, and then the room would become a colorful playground.

Auguste was the kind of person that could turn an unbearable situation into an enjoyable one. When one of the kids needed surgery or had a bad day, Auguste was there with them. Their favorite story was that of Fata Morgana. An old fairy that could change shape. He turned the tale into a song for piano, full of soft and upbeat notes.

There was one time, though, that the little girl didn’t make it. Her name was Cecy, a seven-year-old dark skinned girl with black curls which she loved to wear in braids. She had a bright smile and a talent for the flute, and her dream was to be a doctor so she could help the rest of her friends be healthy and get out of the hospital.

When she died, Auguste cried. But the kids were the most affected ones besides her parents. Auguste sat with them, played them a song. He told them that children didn’t die; they changed shapes, like the fairy from his tales. He told them that children didn’t die; they left for a while, and then came back in the most unexpected way.

He was the older brother of all of them, and if Laurent could do anything for those kids was lend them his brother for a while.

He would have been a great father, as he was a great brother, a great protector. He would have been a great story-teller, a great musician.

But when you loved something, you had to be prepared to lose it.

_ “You know, Lo.” Auguste said, “I think the best thing mom and dad did was bring you to me.” _

And Laurent did.

It was an universal rule, the injustice of life.

_ Yes, Auguste. I think so too. _

 

***

“Is she still not answering?”

Nicaise shook his head and looked away. Laurent knew Nicaise was nervous, although he had to admit the kid had a natural ability to hide away his emotions and thoughts. However, he couldn’t trick Laurent, and perhaps Laurent couldn’t trick him either, because he knew how to get through those walls. He was good at reading people, his calculating mind always one step ahead, except of course when it came to Damen.

Damen was another story.

“Do you have her house number?” Laurent asked. Nicaise shook his head again and bit his lip, then wincing as he ripped off the skin and blood started to come out.

“Shit,” he whispered as he touched his chapped lips.

It was the day of the first round of the Royal, and the accompanist was missing. If there was anything that irritated Laurent to the point of punching someone was irresponsibility. He didn’t know this girl –Vanessa—in person, but so far he didn’t like her one bit.

“No luck?” Damen asked, as he handed Laurent a bottle of water.

“No,” Laurent said and frowned a bit. It would soon be Nicaise’s turn and they were clueless of what to do now. If at any case Nicaise played without an accompanist, he’d be disqualified. It was a rule of the competition; all the violinists must have one to participate. Of course, there was also the possibility of Laurent playing with him, but he didn’t know the piano arrangement well enough to risk Nicaise’s place in the competition. It was a long song, a tone poem, where basically all the movements of a piece became a single continuous one with rushed notes, leaving the musicians breathless. The first part was easy to remember, and maybe with help of his violinist skills he could play it by ear, but the second part wasn’t clear in his head. He couldn’t remember the notes on the piano.

He cursed his lack of practice, and the fact that Auguste wasn’t there.

If Auguste was alive…

If Auguste had been Nicaise’s tutor…

He had to stop thinking like that soon. It was definitely not going to help solve his problems, and it distracted him from thinking objectively. Yes, this wouldn’t be an issue if Auguste was alive, but he could solve it himself. He knew he could, he didn’t have to be the perfect pianist his brother was.

He just needed some time.

The echo of the applause resounded backstage and Nicaise shifted his weight uncomfortably as he held his violin case. Three performances left.

“I can go look for her,” Damen offered, “There’s still time.”

Laurent opened the bottle of water and took a sip, “I’m going to have a few words with this girl.”

“Laurent…”

“I don’t care if she broke her leg or if her fish died, if you’re not going to commit to this then why—“

“I know,” Damen said and moved his hands to massage Laurent’s shoulders, “I know. But she’s just a kid, like Nicaise.”

“That is a terrible excuse. I was a kid once too and I wasn’t as irresponsible.”

“No,” Damen agreed, “You had murderous tendencies but definitely not a drop of irresponsibility.”

Laurent turned around to glare at Damen, who laughed and shrugged in response. “You’re not being helpful,” Laurent whispered.

Before Damen could reply, Nicaise, who was biting his nails rather viciously, spoke up, “What am I going to do?”

“You are going to play,” Laurent said, “Nicaise.” When Nicaise didn’t look up, he tried again, “Nicaise.”

When he finally looked up, Laurent said nothing. They gazed eat each other,

It wasn’t easy, to mentor Nicaise. It was simple to tell him what to do with the violin, only by copying his own learning method through the years. But it was hard when it came to the kind of support intrinsic in the teaching itself. He lacked the encouraging words his brother had; he lacked the empathy, the upbeat attitude, and the endless, crazy ideas.

_ Turn it around. _

_ Improvise. _

And it clicked.

He heard his brother’s voice inside his head,  _ “When in doubt, you must play.” _

The solution, it wasn’t what he wanted, but it was the only thing they could do now. It was that or walk away from Nicaise, leave him alone to his fate for choosing the wrong person to play his accompaniment. But he couldn’t do that, not after the weeks of lessons, the sleepless nights learning the score by heart, the broken nails and bandaging of fingers.

He had promised it, to himself, to Nicaise and his brother.

“Go change into your suit,” Laurent said, “I’ll take care of it.”

Nicaise obeyed, walking away and into one of the changing rooms. When he was gone, Laurent turned to look at Damen.

“What’s your plan?” Damen asked.

Laurent inhaled, “I need you to go to my house and get my violin.”

 

***

The rules weren’t entirely specific. At least not for someone with a mind as Laurent’s. It was true that it said the contestants needed an accompanist, but they never said it was piano only. He didn’t know whether the judges would take it or not, but he was going to try.

He blinked, and he found himself in the middle of the stage next to Nicaise, with the familiar weight of his long time friend on his shoulder and the bow between his fingers. He hadn’t played since that day in September, when he gave life to the Chopin ballade Auguste liked most while trying to fill the void inside his heart.

Now, not only he was going to play the violin, but also on a stage, while being the tutor of a boy competing for the Royal. If he told this story to a stranger, it was probable they wouldn’t believe him. It was bizarre, to say the least, the twisted path that his life had taken since Auguste was no longer there. Not even for a single minute he had thought he would find himself playing on stage after promising to himself he would never do that again.

And this fact didn’t have to do with Auguste, in reality. He had left the competitions way before his brother got sick. The last one being, of course, the Royal. He had won first place, gold, with an unpopular Tchaikovsky piece. He was seventeen, his hair was shorter, he had gotten a new piercing above his old one, and he was angry and frustrated with Charcy and music.

The place on the piano where Auguste had sat back then was now empty. Instead, Nicaise and him were now standing side by side on the center of the stage. He could hear the rumors of people whispering between the public.

_ “Is that Laurent de Vere? The violinist?” _

_ “His brother died last month, didn’t he?” _

_ “Is he going to compete again?”    _ __

The host announced Nicaise’s name and the song he’d be playing as entry for the first round.  _ Danse Macabre _ , a tone poem, by Camille Saint-Saëns. A song made for orchestra, with an  _ obbligato  _ violin that Laurent had managed to arrange –because apparently when you needed to get something done you had to do it yourself—for a soloist, with a piano accompaniment. The song that Nicaise had chosen and held onto stubbornly, even when Laurent suggested to change it for an easier one due to the short time they had to practice. Even now, Nicaise didn’t master it completely.

They bowed and the public stayed silent. Laurent inhaled and looked at Nicaise, who returned the stare.  _ Play like we practiced _ , he wanted to say.

_ Show them what you showed me in the gala concert. _

Nicaise started, and Laurent quickly followed.  _ Danse Macabre _ wasn’t a song that allowed you much time to think. It was fast and tricky from beginning to end, for the same reason that it was a tone poem, an art song that was supposed to tell a story.

_ Zig, zig, zig, Death in cadence, _

_ Striking a tomb with his heel, _

_ Death at midnight plays a dance-tune, _

_ Zig, zig, zag, on his violin. _

They were supposed to be telling the public a legend; every year on Halloween, Death would play his violin at midnight, calling the dead from their graves to dance for him, until the rooster crows at dawn and they have to return. It was incredibly famous and popular, which was ironic when it hadn’t been well received when the composer wrote it.

It was unusual, however, that two violinists played it together. Piano complimented the violin, and in an orchestra, there were flutes and oboes, even a tuba. But two violinists was a rare combination, for the sound of the violin was always sharp and strong. A piano could be an accompaniment, but another violin was always more competition. If balanced wrong, one sound could eat the other, or become a high pitched fight of rivals.

That always happened with Aimeric. To play the same song, the same arrangement, it could be a death wish. Laurent tried to focus on the notes, he tried to remember the score for the piano accompaniment, transforming into violin inside his head. His body moved on its own, his hands pressing on the chords by pure instinct, a reflex of years of practice. Keeping up with soft background notes was harder than he thought, his inner violinist challenging him to change the route of the song.

He had played this once, in Charcy’s orchestra. He was first violin.

_ This is not how you play this song. _

_ You’re not an accompanist. _

_ You’re first. _

The tempo was wrong. Nicaise was trying to keep up with the rhythm, his hands were sweating and his sound was too harsh. Although his face was as impassive as always, the violin was speaking up his nerves. Laurent took the chance and shifted, his own sound taking over Nicaise’s. Nicaise looked up at him in a silent question that Laurent ignored. He set up the right tempo, making Nicaise struggle with the notes.

_ You’re not an accompanist. _

_ You’re first. You’re a soloist. _

It seemed like he couldn’t play pretend for a night. The violin did this to him. He felt divided in two persons, the violinist and the other. He always placed gracefully, always softly yet with determination. And even though he was always, always trying to get away from it, from the music and everything it meant, he was always drawn back into this spiral.

He changed the route of the song, his own violin taking over and leading. The Royal was a fight for the throne; he wouldn’t let anyone steal his position. Not even Nicaise.

They were entering the second part of the song when Nicaise’s sound grew stronger. The notes were getting faster, quicker, more energetic. The accompaniment changed to a solo, and suddenly they were playing an impromptu duet.

Neither of them wanted to give in to the other. This was the place where teacher and student met, where they faced each other as rivals. The violins fighting along with their owners, although Nicaise had the disadvantage. Laurent was more experienced, and he knew Nicaise’s weaknesses.

And yet, Nicaise had the raw, brutish talent Laurent lacked. It was explosive, like a bomb. As destructive as it was a gift. Laurent was a natural; he was the best of his generation and renowned in the music world. But it wasn’t the same thing; it wasn’t the same kind of talent.

It was amazing how much he reminded Laurent of Auguste. The way he played, the way he felt and understood music. He connected with it; he had that kind of skill. He wasn’t the reluctant and self denying violinist Laurent was, but the image of the devoted musician Auguste had been.

He wanted to know how. He wanted to know how Auguste had found him, and why he was now in his life. Why was he playing the violin on a stage with a teenager that showed up from nowhere?

Unfortunately, Auguste had left too many questions unanswered. They had in common, it seemed. Maybe it ran in the family.

They were tired, their arms were growing tired, and the song was still not ever. They refused to stop, though. It was an open battle that was meant to happen from the beginning. And in spite of it all, Laurent felt happy.

He was enjoying it.

And he knew Nicaise was too. When someone was as good, or even better than you, it made things better, more interesting. They found in each other what they couldn’t find anywhere else, that rivalry and desire to outdo the other without harming each other, just for the sake of winning, of taking the spotlight, of dominating the piece.

It was ending, and Nicaise skipped some of the notes near the final part, Laurent barely catching up and Nicaise grinning at him.

_ You little shit. _

The climax finished with an abrupt break, a coda putting an end to the party of death and its friends. As they put their bows down, they were aware of the public, watching them in awe. And the applause came with a wave of emotion. They bowed again, and people threw flowers and cheered like if the song they had heard wasn’t a classical.

Laurent carried his violin and felt drown in a bliss that was only possible with music. The adrenaline of the stage finished, exhaustion taking over leaving him feeling renewed,  _ leggero _ .

They went backstage, Nicaise sitting down, his legs still trembling but with satisfaction all over his face. Laurent met Damen’s eyes from across the hall, and suddenly he found himself in his arms. Damen ran to him and hugged him tightly, he had tears in his eyes but he spoke with joy.

“You did it,” he said, chuckling, “And it was amazing.”

Laurent was shocked, with bow and violin still in his hands; he threw his arms around Damen’s back as best as he could and pulled him in. He was holding him like Laurent had been gone for years and had only just returned. Damen was holding onto him like if Laurent would disappear any minute now, like if he was unreal.

“Damen…” he whispered, not knowing what else to say.

Damen pulled away and looked into his eyes. He saw his owns feelings reflected in Damen’s, like if they were one. They were so close, the impulsive desire from the performance not gone yet, that for a minute there, Laurent was sure Damen would kiss him.

And he was mildly disappointed when Damen didn’t.

 

***

The results of the first round wouldn’t be known until the next day. The temperature was starting to drop when they left the Arles Hall.

It was Halloween night, and as every year, the city was full of people in costumes and the noise of parties shook the ground. This was probably the first Halloween Laurent had forgotten completely. Without his brother, it wasn’t the same. He didn’t see a point in celebrations and holidays anymore.

Even so, he couldn’t help but remember how much Auguste loved Halloween. He loved spooky and creepy things, he’d spend his nights convincing Laurent to binge-watch horror movies and he always had a party to attend. Laurent had loved it as well, especially when he was a kid and a teenager. So he didn’t really argue when Nicaise asked him and Damen to give him a ride to a party in the centre of town.

After the competition, Nicaise had fire in his eyes. He had more energy than he did before, and he was already talking about what song they would perform next, to which Laurent listened intently. He decided to omit the part, however, that Laurent wouldn’t play with him like that anymore. It was a onetime thing that wouldn’t be repeated. The judges had made it clear that they would make a concession on Nicaise because of the prestige Laurent and his older brother had in the music world and especially the Royal.

He was too tired to argue with Nicaise, though, so he just let it slide. After having dropped Nicaise, Damen drove away and Laurent rested his head back on the seat. He felt good, in spite of the exhaustion.

Damen parked the car after a few minutes, and Laurent opened his eyes –when had he close them?—to look at him. Damen grinned and said, “So, wanna go trick-or-treat?”

“Where are we?” Laurent asked.

“My apartment building.” Damen said, “I wasn’t sure where you wanted to go so…”

Laurent leaned over to look through the window at the tall building, “Why aren’t you living with your dad anymore?” It was a question he was meaning to ask since Damen told him he would stay for a while to help with the family business, but he had never had a good opportunity to ask that wasn’t incredibly direct and uncomfortable for Damen.

Damen was silent for a minute. Laurent turned to look at him, but Damen was frowning at his hands over the wheel.

“Damen,” he said, “You don’t have to answer, I—“

“Kastor,” Damen said finally, “Kastor is living there.”

Kastor, Damen’s half brother on his father side, the son of his ex-wife.  The asshole that had fucked Jokaste while they were still in Charcy. Damen’s family story wasn’t very pleasant. He only knew the bits Auguste told him, and it took Laurent a while to put all the pieces together when he was still a teenager. It was common knowledge in Charcy that during his senior year, Kastor was tangled in a web of drugs and gangs. No one was really surprised when he overdosed accidentally after graduation. But for Damen that had been a fatal blow. And after that, Kastor had refused to go to rehab, thus leading to what had been –in words of Auguste—the worst fight between brothers you could witness.

“I thought he was gone.” Laurent whispered.

Damen said, “Me too. It was an unpleasant surprise.”

Laurent didn’t know what to say, and Damen looked tense, which didn’t happen often. His relaxed features were curving into an ugly frown.

He reached over, his right hand brushing Damen’s hair off his head, then pressing in-between his eyebrows with his index finger. Quoting Damen himself, he said, “You’re going to get wrinkles earlier if you continue to be so grumpy.”

Damen’s lips curved into a smile, “Who told you that?”

“A giant animal,” Laurent said, pressing stronger into the spot.

Damen made a sound of pain and took Laurent’s finger away, “You hurt me,  _ Vicomte _ .”

Laurent couldn’t help but smile as he said, “ _ C’est dommage _ .”  _ Too bad. _

“ _ Voulez-vous aller dîner, votre Altesse _ ?” Damen asked, “ _ La nuit est claire, on peux se balader _ .”

Switching back to English, Laurent said, “Finally you have some good ideas, Damianos.”

 

***

Watching Laurent was something Damen never got tired of.

It had been like that ever since they were kids. And it wasn’t like he had the stalking tendency Laurent loved to tease him about, but rather the most innocent feeling Damen had ever felt in his entire life.

He liked to watch Laurent, because he always found him amusing. Interesting, different. He was the opposite of Damen; reserved, quiet, shy, with a strong temperament and unexplainable behavior.

He couldn’t remember exactly when the interest for Laurent had started. Maybe from the beginning, when Auguste introduced them. It was hard to get close to him, he didn’t talk much and every time Damen tried to initiate a conversation, Laurent would scrutinize him with his big blue eyes like if Damen was a bug from another dimension. He was too serious for a child, too mature, so their worlds often collided.

As Laurent grew up, his odd curiosity turned to indifference, ignoring completely the relevance of Damen’s existence. To Auguste’s eyes, his little brother was nothing more but a buttercup. At the time, Damen thought Auguste was either blind or crazy, but now that they were older, Damen could see it, too.

The buttercup.

They were sitting in front of each other at a table in Damen’s favorite Italian restaurant, a small, cozy place with good food and ambience. Laurent was too focused on talking and eating a lemon pie to realize Damen was staring at him with a grin on his face. It was a bit stupid, he knew, but he couldn’t help it.

He found amazing how Laurent could eat two pastries in a row and enjoy each bite like it was the first one when Damen hadn’t been able to finish his tiramisu for it being too sweet.

They were so different. And perhaps that was the reason why everything Laurent did surprised Damen. It was fun to get to know him. It was fun to see how he changed around you as the relationship developed. He still remembered the first time he had made Laurent laugh the hardest, to the point it took him a minute to regain his composure, which was strange in him.

It happened when Damen was sixteen and Laurent thirteen. One day, while going home from school, Auguste had made Laurent laugh. It was one of the few times Damen had been there to see it, Laurent openly laughing. The sound of it was so precious and contagious that Damen decided he would make Laurent laugh as well. But, it was harder than he thought. Laurent was too serious, too hard to impress.

However, he managed to success. It hadn’t been what he expected, in fact, he wasn’t trying to make Laurent laugh when it happened. They were sitting in a café, similar to the way they were now in the present, because Damen had finally convinced him to go try the new chocolate fudge cake with him. To be honest, he had not been that hard to convince, his eyes widened every time someone mentioned something sweet.

So, there they were, just two teenagers enjoying a cup of coffee –tea in Laurent’s case—and a chocolate fudge cake.

“Listen,” Damen said, his eyes shining with excitement, “This is the best chocolate fudge cake in the entire northern hemisphere.”

Laurent raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything, instead grabbing his drink and sipping. Damen couldn’t help but moan in rather shamelessly pleasure as he took the first bite.

The disaster occurred so fast that even to this day he wasn’t sure what had happened. As Damen went to reach for his coffee, he had clumsily missed and sent the plate of cake flying directly onto his chest, on his perfectly white shirt. Shocked, he looked up to see Laurent staring at him, his eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t expected this twist of events either.

“My…cake,” Damen said, sadly.

And then it started, Laurent’s shoulders shaking softly at first and then faster as his laughter grew louder. Damen was stunned, with the cake still on his chest and Laurent laughing in front of him. He was laughing, openly, loudly, to the point it turned silent and Laurent had to hold his stomach. His face was red like a tomato, tears were crippling on his eyes and he covered his mouth with his hand trying to –uselessly—calm himself down.

After that day, Laurent still laughed each time they walked past the café and Damen blushed in embarrassment. That was the only time he had managed to make Laurent laugh like that –and he hadn’t even meant to.

_ When did time pass by so fast? _

“Damianos,” Laurent said, bringing Damen back to the present, “Are you listening to me?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you wanted some sweetmeat.”

Damen wrinkled his nose, “No, thank you. I think I’ve had too much sweet.” Laurent tilted his head to the side.  _ Like a puppy _ , Damen thought. “You can finish my tiramisu if you want.” He pushed his unfinished cake to Laurent.

“Are you sure?” Damen nodded.

Laurent shrugged and brought his spoon to lick the cream, “Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not blushing.” Was he?

“You are,” Laurent insisted, “Were you thinking of perverted things again?”

Damen flushed harder, “I was not—it was the wine.”

“Damianos,” Laurent said, trying to hide his grin, “Didn’t you order water?”

 

***

By the time they left the restaurant, it was freezing outside and looked like it would rain. They half ran, half walked fast towards Damen’s apartment, which was no more than a few blocks away. They had decided to leave the car and walk because walking together down the center of town was their thing. It was how they got to know each other through the years, and it was a nice break from the chaos of traffic and the city.

However, now that the temperature had dropped considerably, it seemed like a very idiotic idea. It wasn’t all bad, though, because he got to hold Laurent’s hand –which he liked a lot—and run like children on the street.

He didn’t know how it had begun, the holding hands thing. He wasn’t sure who was the one to reach for who, or if they both had been seeking each other for a long while now. Damen was happy, though, because Laurent wasn’t rejecting him again.

He was, in fact, opening up. A little, slowly, but it was enough for Damen to be happy. The fact that he was no longer trying to walk away or push Damen aside.

Damen always listened, he never missed a single word. Although most of their conversations were about books or films, or superfluous anecdotes from their lives when they were apart. It wasn’t often when they spoke of serious matters, like Auguste or their friends or their future.

Damen didn’t want to bother that spot. He knew it was a big deal for Laurent to be trying to go back to a somewhat “normal” life without his brother. After visiting the grave, Laurent had barely talked for the next day or two. He needed to be left alone, and Damen went home and did his things, thanking God for the existence of Vivi. It was perhaps a childish thought but he was glad to know that  _ at least _ Laurent wasn’t entirely on his own. Even if it was in the company of a cat.

After coming back from Ios, he never imagined things could turn out like this. In some part of his heart there was still the fear and the pain he felt when losing Laurent in high school. Because, even when Laurent had been the one to hurt him, he felt like he was losing him. Losing him to an invisible monster Damen couldn’t fight. None of them could. So, to see him now, next to him in a relaxed posed while drinking hot cocoa on the floor of his small apartment was like an unexpected yet well received dream.

They hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights; they were just sitting there in the warmth, looking through the balcony windows. The city underneath them was alive, loud, claiming attention. Arles was like that, like the vain court of a Kingdom.

“Where are you, Vicomte?” he asked.

Laurent turned from the window to see him, his eyes shining like sapphires in the dark, his hair like gold. Like that old song, from The Carpenters.

“At the competition,” Laurent whispered, “Something happened.”

“Something?”

“Maybe,” Laurent said, but he seemed to be lost in thoughts, “Could it be that I was wrong, Damen?”

He didn’t explain and Damen didn’t ask. Simply, he said, “We can both be right and wrong at the same time.”

“But how can that happen, isn’t it too contradictory?” Laurent asked.

Damen smiled, “Humans are contradictory.”

Laurent seemed to take that answer, “I enjoyed it.” He said quietly, the words an admission for both himself and Damen. “Playing the violin, that is.”

“I enjoyed it too,” Damen said, “Listening to you.”

The way Laurent looked at him next made his heart beat faster. Somehow, he expected a cold expression, his face impassive, but it wasn’t like that. He seemed happy, calm, with his armor down.

He wasn’t thinking, he didn’t have time for that. He leaned over carefully, until they were breathing the same air. They were close, too close, but he wanted this more than anything. He had wanted this since they were in high school. One kiss more beautiful and profound than the last.

If Laurent gave him the chance...

He asked, “Can I…?”

Laurent’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t move. “Yes.”

They jumped, then, with the sound of thunder. Trying to look back to the window, they ended up bumping their foreheads into each other. Damen cursed and pulled back, rubbing his head.

The silence that reigned in the apartment was interrupted by Laurent’s laugh. He was laughing, rubbing his own head. There was another thunder and Damen jumped again.

“Fuck.” Damen whispered, “I hate storms.”

That only helped for Laurent to laugh harder.

“I don’t see what’s so funny!”

“It’s your face,” Laurent said, “If you could have seen your face.”

_ There it is again _ , Damen thought,  _ the buttercup. _

Because Laurent looked more beautiful when he laughed, Damen let it slide. If he could listen to that laugh every day for the rest of his life, he’d be more than content.

Even if he had to suffer to achieve that, he would. That is why humans are so contradictory. If it was for Laurent’s well-being, Damen would do anything, no matter what. No matter if he hurt himself in the process, or if he ruined his favorite white shirt with a piece of chocolate fudge cake.

After all, it was Laurent who bought him another cake and helped him clean his shirt. It was Laurent who then offered to watch a movie and distract Damen from the sound of the thunderstorm.

It was Laurent who held him when he cried over Auguste’s things. And Laurent who defended him against Jokaste back in high school.

Those were the things that made Damen fall in love with him. Back then and now as well. The details that maybe Laurent didn’t remember, the small things he did for others that were easily forgotten over his cold-blooded nature.

Everything that Laurent gave him to keep; the memories, the kisses, the conversations, the songs he played on the violin. The poems and the silly laughs and impromptu dates.

Damen, he was sure of something.

He didn’t want to lose him again.

 

***

Laurent always got lost in the music conservatory.

It was like a maze. An antique Palace that had been restored and now was the main building of the best school in the country. Every time he walked through the halls, he felt like he was transported back to an epoch of royalty, like in the book he liked about enemy Princes.

Laurent had been in the conservatory enough times to count with his fingers. Most teachers knew him already, for he was the –as told by them—vivid image of his older brother and a famous young violinist. The last time he had been there was to pick up a of Auguste’s things after his death.

He felt uncomfortable, his heart stung a little. Just thinking that his brother spent so many of his days in that institution and loved it  _ so _ much. Again, it felt as if he was intruding into a part of Auguste’s life that was private and personal and Laurent didn’t belong.

How would have it been if Laurent had accepted the offer to study there? How would it be now? Would he hate it?

Would he love it more?

Finding Victoria was easy enough if you listened properly. He knew he was in the far-off room at the end of the hall because he could hear the sound of her piano. It was unmistakable.

Victoria always chose complicated songs, those that seemed more like a challenge were her favorite ones. Chopin’s _Étude in C-sharp minor Op. 10, No. 4._ Passionate, fast, _presto con fuocco_. It was considered one of Chopin’s most difficult studies; the pianist focuses on developing the ability to be able to distinguish well the melody, which is continuously passed from one hand to another. To play that song you needed not only velocity but also the adequate lightness in both hands and fierce accentuation. You had to learn to use your left hand as if it was a second right hand, and your thumbs were clashing on the black keys like if they were whites.

Laurent had never played it; it wasn’t his kind of song. It wasn’t Auguste’s either, even though he could have played it perfectly if he had wanted to. It was the expression of restless, almost savage, grim raging. Many people described it to be dark and twisted, others said it bubbled with life and spurted flame.

He didn’t interrupt, he walked into the room and saw Victoria, her body tense yet moving with great velocity on the piano. She didn’t see him, for her eyes were closed. She was frowning as she moved her fingers on the keyboard.

Laurent had once read that this particular Chopin étude had the hint of something demoniacal, almost very sinister in it. He believed that. Not only was it extremely difficult to play, but it was also angry and very exhausting. It was the piece that reflected the worst sentiments of a pianist.

Victoria was upset, that was clear. But it was more complex than that, she was disconcerted, sad, angry, frustrated and disappointed. All at the same time. Very much what Laurent had been feeling as well.

She finished with a coda, a dramatic apotheosis, and opened her eyes. As she came aware of his presence, her eyes widened.

“Laurent? What are you doing here?”

Laurent stepped closer, “It’s your free day, isn’t it?”

Victoria smiled, although she was frowning. It was an ugly, heart-wrenching expression. Her eyes were filled with melancholy, “I have nothing else to do.”

“That’s perfect,” Laurent said, “I have an offer for you.”

“Really?”

Laurent nodded, “I need an accompanist, for this kid I’m mentoring.”

Victoria looked at him in surprise, “You’re teaching?” and then, “That’s so good, oh my God.” She pressed her hands together and chuckled.

“His name is Nicaise,” Laurent said “He says he knew Auguste.”

“Nicaise? I think he was part of our summer program last year, yes.” She nodded, “Auguste was very popular between the kids, and his group was always the happiest.”

“He was very popular with everyone,” Laurent admitted, “In the hospital too.”

“I take it you’re doing better, then?” she asked, “It makes me happy to know that.”

There was a silence, and Laurent asked, “How are you, Victoria?”

Her eyes wandered to the piano and to her hands on the keyboard. Laurent noticed she was still wearing the ring. “I miss him so much.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed several times before continuing, “I can’t. Sometimes I think I will never meet anyone like him.”

“No,” Laurent whispered, “You’ll never…We’ll never meet anyone like him again.”  Victoria deserved the life that was denied for her. She deserved the love that was snatched away from her heart.

_But maybe you will find someone that makes you laugh._

He couldn’t say it, though. He couldn’t voice that thought.

“So, an accompanist you said?” She said, cleaning her tears with her sweater sleeves. “I’ll do it, with one condition.” Laurent waited for her to speak up again, “Play a song with me.”

Laurent froze, “A song?”

She nodded, “Play the violin with me. You owe me that since we met, remember?”

He raised an eyebrow, “Now?”

“I can find you a violin.”

“Why now, though?”

She stood up from the piano and started for the door, “Because you never know when you’ll be able to play with someone again.”

 

***

It was the first time they played together.

Victoria let him use one of the storage violins from the orchestra’s room. It was different than his, an older model. The piece she chose was from Debussy, an art song, to be more specific. It was really short, just a little longer than two minutes.

He had heard it before, it wasn’t very famous, but it was sweet and calming. Debussy made him think of those years where his parents were alive. When his childhood and dreams were innocent and blissful.

The arrangement was for violin and piano; the violin sang along to the silent words of the poem, and the piano followed in the background. They were singing together, dancing. The song, although called “ _ Romance _ ” didn’t tell a love story. Or it did, but not the Romeo and Juliet everyone was used to. It was a song about love, about loving someone who’s now gone. It was a song about unconditional love, the purest form of affection you could feel for someone.

It was as if though, in a world where Laurent and Victoria were alone, they played a song written about Auguste loved. Remembering him, the way he smiled at them and the way he made them both laugh.

_ We’ll never meet anyone like you, Auguste. _

It hurt, it was sentimental and nostalgic, and the way Victoria played was so similar to his brother’s technique, the sound almost the same, that he thought he would die of grief while playing the violin. His presence, his marks, Auguste was there with them.

He was their music.

_ The vanishing and suffering soul, _

_ The sweet soul, the fragrant soul _

_ Of divine lilies that I have picked _

_ In the garden of your thoughts, _

_ Where, then, have the winds chased it, _

_ This charming soul of the lilies? _

_ Is there no longer a perfume that remains _

_ Of the celestial sweetness _

_ Of the days when you enveloped me _

_ In a supernatural haze, _

_ Made of hope, of faithful love, _

_ Of bliss and of peace? _

 

***

Damen opened the door at the third knock.

He looked at Laurent in surprise. It was clear he wasn’t expecting him – or anybody. He was in loose sweatpants and an old faded t-shirt from a band Laurent didn’t know and couldn’t focus on.

Laurent looked up to meet Damen’s eyes, his whole body shivering, teeth chattering. He was wet, cold and exhausted.

Meeting with Victoria had affected him more than he thought. Then, he had gotten home to a broken pipe and a flooded house. Vivi meowing as soon as he opened the door, running to him as fast as he could in an attempt to get away from the water.

Laurent couldn’t deal with that at the moment.

He was alone, he didn’t know how to fix a broken pipe and he couldn’t stop thinking of his brother and Victoria.

He was just  _ sad _ .

So, he had grabbed Vivi, his car keys and had driven away. He wasn’t thinking at all, driving in auto-pilot, and then he had found himself in Damen’s house. Because…Damen made him laugh.  Damen didn’t make him sad. And that was the only logic that made sense in his head when he was so distressed.

It was a cold night; November came in bringing the first gales of winter’s wind. Damen let him in, he made him undress and put his clothes in the dryer machine. He changed into one of Damen’s clean sweatshirts. It was too big for him, swallowed him completely.

Vivi didn’t hesitate to claim a sleeping spot on the couch, and Laurent sat next to him, unsure of what to do. It was only when he looked down at his hands that he realized he was trembling still, although the heating was on.

The water on his house had reminded him of the nightmare.

Why was it that it took you longer to feel happy than it did to feel bad? Always something happened, bringing back to the start of the process. He didn’t blame Victoria, or anyone, he just wished he didn’t have to feel anything anymore.

_ Why? _

The apartment smelled like lasagna. Damen said something about finishing with food quickly, but Laurent only heard half of it. He felt suffocated. It was too much, again.

Too much.

He got up and walked to the balcony, opening the window, letting in the breeze and allowing himself to look up at the sky. They said that when you feel anxious the best you can do is look up at the sky. It reminded you of the vastness of the world, of the universe. It helped him breathe a little better.

“You know, in Ios, when I looked at the sky, I always thought of you.” Damen was standing next to him, also looking up. He didn’t notice when he had come back from the kitchen.

“Really?” Laurent asked.

Damen smiled, “Do you feel better?”

Laurent whispered, “I don’t know, Damen.” It felt like a confession, an admission of a truth Laurent was always hiding.

“That’s okay, Lo.” Damen said, reaching up to touch Laurent’s cheek. He flushed in response, but his heart didn’t speed up. Instead, it calmed down.

“You’re using my nickname now?”

“Does it bother you?” Damen whispered.

Laurent shook his head, “No,” And then, a little shyly, “Only if it’s you.”

_ And Auguste. _

“It’s an honor,” Damen smiled.

“I missed you,” Laurent said, because it felt right to say it. Because he wanted to say it, he wanted Damen to know. “I mean that…I missed you, all these years.”

“I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you,” Laurent said, “I only made you believe I did.”

“That’s mean, why did you do that?”

Laurent shrugged and looked away. He was flushing harder.

_ I was trying to protect you from me. _

“I missed you too, you know,” Damen said.

“You did?”

Damen nodded, then he grabbed Laurent’s hands, he smiled, “Do you want an honest answer?”

Laurent’s lips curved into a smile, recognizing the old words, and then he nodded. The kiss was chaste and sweet, and felt different from the one they had shared once. It didn’t make Laurent nervous, in fact, it made him relax. He felt himself leaning against Damen’s touch, the tension suddenly gone. They pulled away a second and looked at each other, their emotions reflected on the other’s face.

Unconditional love.

The purest feeling.

Laurent was the one to press his lips forward again and Damen kissed him back, deepening the kiss. He felt Damen exploring his mouth, something he had never experienced before.  Their hands were joined tightly, in spite of the softness of their touches.

Unlike their first kiss, this didn’t feel like an invasion, an intoxicating reaction. It was more of a reassurance, an affirmation, and answer.

_ Damen. _

The boy he had hurt in high school, the one he had fallen for. The one who made him laugh.

Damen drew back, he said, “See? You’ve stopped shivering now.”

Squeezing his hands, Laurent nodded, “Yes.”

With a dreamy sigh, Damen said, “I’ve been dying to kiss you since the night of the competition.”

Laurent laughed softly, “Do you have a crush on me, Damianos?”

Smiling, “I’ve had a crush on you since we were kids, Laurent.”

Then, he knew they would be okay.

He knew when they closed the windows and came back to the living room, settling on the sofa with homemade lasagna and Vivi drinking milk by their feet. He knew they’d be okay when Damen put an arm around him and pulled him close to kiss his hair, and it made him flush but he felt warm inside.

He knew they’d be okay when they talked about Victoria and the broken pipe and Damen said he understood. He knew they’d be okay when they fell asleep on the couch, tangled between each other and Vivi snuggled up somewhere in the middle.

Humans were contradictory. Laurent knew he very much was an example himself. But even though he was hurting and half of himself were condemning his actions he couldn’t help but feel something else inside of him. The happiness when playing with Nicaise, the affection towards Damen.

He didn’t know if it was correct, if Auguste would hate him for it, but he didn’t want to push Damen away anymore. The holding hands, the kissing, the trusting, the laughs – he wanted that as much as he wanted his brother back.

He could only hope his brother would understand. He missed him, and Victoria’s sadness had touched him. Because she had lost what Laurent was only beginning to have.

But they’d be okay.

He knew they would.


	20. Déjà vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends. I'm back.  
> I'm so, so sorry I didn't update last week. I was blocked, terribly blocked. However, to make it up to you, I am working on a Christmas special similar to the Halloween one! It will not be ready for Sunday (I think?) but hopefully I'll be posting it next week for sure. Thanks for always being so patient with moi. <3  
> This is mostly a transition chapter, and I know (God, I know) it is not my best one but there were a few things that needed to happen here in order to continue with the story, so i hope you forgive my delay and accept this humble piece of work. As always, thanks to Ellen, my super awesome beta, and Kelly, my friend and partner in crime for helping me through this horrible writer's block. 
> 
> And thanks for all the comments, kudos and tweets!  
> Enjoy~

“Auguste.”

He felt a tug on his sleeve, and he stopped playing the piano to look down at his younger brother. He smiled; Laurent was in his pajamas, his hair falling on his forehead. Auguste reached over to part the fringe in two, allowing Laurent to see properly. It was late on a Tuesday. He had figured his little brother would be asleep by now.

To be honest, they both should be asleep by now. But often Auguste got caught up in his daily practice. Sometimes, after he was done with memorising music scores and practicing new techniques, he’d find the time to just let his imagination flow and improvise. It was a method of composing he was trying to implement into his daily routine, and it was so relaxing and deflating that he felt all his worries washed away as he pressed his fingers into the keyboard.

He felt like he was connected to the piano, always have. From the moment he first sat on the bench and tried to recreate the sound of a song he heard his mom humming. He’d never forget the look on his parent’s faces as they came to watch their infant playing the instrument like he knew what he was doing. To realize that their kid was a virtuoso pianist that didn’t even needed to be taught to play. A piano prodigy, they called him. The blond haired child that played Chopin perfectly by eight years old and that mastered Beethoven and Brahms and won all the competitions.

The first time he played was the one memory he didn’t wish to ever forget. And he thought that it was probably he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Next to his baby brother’s birth, it was one of the things that made him Auguste de Vere; those moments that changed the route of his life forever, the scenes that made him what he was now. The ones that went and were stored in his core. He had just pressed on the keys, trying to find the matching sounds, trying to bring back the melody inside his mind.

The piano had given him everything from the start, and Auguste hadn’t hesitated to give it all back. He had found his melody, and there was no going back from there. Just onwards, forward, trying to reach the incredible, trying to change the world with his music.

His little brother rubbed one of his eyes and came to stand in front of him. “What is it, Lo?” He asked. Laurent, who Auguste only realized now was teary eyed, didn’t answer. “Lo?”

“It’s Uncle,” Laurent said, finally, biting his bottom lip.

Auguste’s smile faded, “Uncle?” He pulled Laurent towards him, “Did he do something to you?”

Laurent looked away, and Auguste took his small hands, squeezed them lightly. “Tell me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

With every second that passed without a response, Auguste was sure he could feel his heart contracting in pain and fear. He always feared the worst when it came to their uncle. It was perhaps a natural thing, an involuntary reaction that had been producing inside of him since he was a child. There was something wrong about him. Not only he was mean and a bastard, but there was a hidden mischief behind the mask he pulled every day.

He confirmed his doubts when he moved to their parents’ house after their deaths. Their uncle was all in for physical reprimands and psychological torture. Like the time he locked Laurent in a dark room for hours till Auguste came home from school to find his little brother curled up in a ball by the door, trembling and starving.

Auguste wasn’t sure what it was that bothered him or what it was that he wanted from them, but with each day that passed, it seemed like he could only hate him more than he did the previous day.

Laurent’s voice broke when he said, “He hit me again.”

“He hit you?” Auguste asked unable to keep the anger from his voice. “Where? Show me.”

Laurent pulled up his pajamas pants to reveal several belt marks on the back of his thigh. They were red and swollen and Laurent winced in pain when Auguste touched them.  “I’m sorry,” He said, “We’ll put some cream on them, okay? It’ll make you feel better.”

His brother nodded slightly, but the tears were spilled over anyway. Auguste wanted to kill him.

Who was he? How dare he hit his brother?

“What are you playing?” Laurent asked, then, his eyes landing on the piano. He was still crying quietly, desperately trying to dry out the tears off his face.

Auguste said nothing but moved on the bench, giving Laurent enough space to sit next to him. His younger brother did and looked up to the music score, “Jimbo’s Lullaby?”

“It’s a song by Debussy,” Auguste said, “About an elephant from the Sudan, who lived in a zoo in Paris.”

“An elephant?” Laurent’s eyes widened, “I’ve never seen a real elephant before.” And then, “Have you, Auguste?”

“Only in the zoo.”  Auguste smiled and played a few notes on the piano.

Laurent asked, “Can we go to the zoo?”  

“Of course,” And then, “Can you read the score, Lo?”

Laurent bit his lip and placed his small palms on the keyboard, pressing on the first few notes, “Is it like this?”

“You missed the final one, the G,” Auguste said and grabbed Laurent’s hand in his, moving it to the right chord, “Like this. Listen to the notes; don’t you think they’re telling you something?”

Laurent’s eyes shone, “They’re saying ‘ _Jimbo_ ’ aren’t they?” And then, pressing the correct notes, “Jim-bo. Like this?”

He beamed, “Exactly. You got it, Lo!”

“Can you teach me to play this song?” Laurent asked.

“I will.” Auguste said, and then stretched, “We can do it tomorrow, yes? Now you have to go to bed.”

“Will you go with me?” Laurent whispered, his eyes searching for his older brother’s.

Auguste nodded, “Do you want to sleep in my room tonight?”

Laurent nodded quickly, and Auguste stood up from the piano. Hand in hand, they walked upstairs to Auguste’s room. Very carefully, Auguste applied cream to Laurent’s bruises. He kissed his head goodnight and tucked him in, promising to go back in a few minutes. He knew the reason why Laurent had a hard time telling him about their uncle, and it was mostly because he hated it when they got into a fight. He hated it when their uncle hit Auguste as well. But Laurent was too young still to understand that these things weren’t okay, and that Auguste couldn’t stop and stare forever. He had to act; he had to fight somehow, for his little brother and himself. For the memory of their parents.

He wouldn’t let their uncle get away with this. He wouldn’t let him continue to hit Laurent.

Auguste left a sleepy Laurent with a cup of milk in his room and closed the door behind him as he stepped out. Then, he walked over to what used to be his parents room and knocked.

The amount of rage he felt was proportional to the immense sadness that invaded him as he saw how his uncle was trying to destroy the last few drops of his parents’ spirit that were left in the house. Their uncle was a toxic presence that was invading their lives. Auguste wanted him gone more than anything, maybe even more than he wanted his mom and dad back.

And that was already a lot.

The voice from his uncle reached him in the hall, telling him to come in. He took a breath and opened the door. The man was sitting at the desk, on his laptop. All Auguste knew is that he worked in what had been his father’s company. He was probably trying to destroy that too.

“Uncle,” Auguste said, “I need to speak with you.”

“What is it you want, Auguste? Isn’t it late?” He asked, looking up from the screen to regard him.

“Why did you hit Laurent?” Auguste asked.

The uncle said simply, “He was being disobedient, so I taught him some manners.”

Auguste gritted his teeth, “By hitting him with a belt enough times to make his leg almost purple? Is that your way of reprimanding children? Beat them to death?”

“Careful there with your tongue, Auguste,” the uncle said calmly, “Or shall I remind you what can happen if you tempt me?”

“Laurent is a child; I won’t let you keep torturing him. I—“

“I just have to make a call, and your brother and you will be separated till he turns eighteen,” he said, then shrugged, “You what? You will tell who? Nephew, your parents are dead.”

“You can’t do that—I won’t let you.”Auguste said, his hands clenched into fists by his sides.

“Don’t make me laugh. You’re as much of a child as Laurent is.” His uncle said, returning his gaze to whatever he was doing on the computer. “Go to bed, Auguste. We’ll speak more tomorrow.”

And with that, he was thrown out of the room. Auguste stood in the hall for what seemed forever, trying to organize his thoughts and emotions. He hated that man.

He wouldn’t let him get near Laurent anymore.

He wouldn’t let him break his brother.

There had to be a way for him to do something. There had to be someone who could help him.

Even if he had to let himself take all of the pain, he’d do it as long as Laurent was safe.

The first thing he heard when he came back to his room was Laurent’s low, contained sobs. He closed the door behind him and locked it, then crawled on the bed and under the sheets, next to his brother. He touched his hair softly, “Laurent? Why are you crying? Are you hurting?”

“I miss Mom,” Laurent whispered.

Auguste swallowed against the knot on his throat and said, “I miss her too.” Then, he moved to hug his little brother, their heads touching, “Don’t worry, Lo. I’m here. It’ll be alright, okay? I’ll protect you with my life.”

“Did you get in a fight with uncle?” Laurent asked, shifting to be closer to Auguste.

“Nah. He just yelled at me a bit,” he lied, then kissed Laurent’s forehead, “Go to sleep. Dream of elephants.”

Laurent shut his eyes but then asked, in a soft voice, “Are you still taking me to the zoo?”

Auguste couldn’t help but grin, “Yes, Lo. I’ll take you to the zoo.”

 

 

***

It was the early morning.

He woke up with Damen’s arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. The windows were tarnished with fog, and the apartment was cold. Everything remained motionless. From the half empty cups of tea they had left on the coffee table to the dirty plates neither of them had bothered in taking to the kitchen and Laurent’s clean clothes inside the dryer machine. The duvet they had used to cover themselves the previous night was tangled between their legs, and the only audible sounds were those of birds chirping outside. It was admirable how they still flew around in the cold, how their world didn’t stop for a second.

It was even more impressive how, even after everything, Laurent’s world didn’t stop for a second. At first, he thought that maybe his life ended there. That his timeline was divided in small courses, like seasons, or epochs. Each one ending in death and overwhelming experiences that also led to the division of his own personality. The Laurent he was when he was a child was now long gone, and the Laurent he was three months ago was too. He woke up each day feeling more different than he did the night before, sometimes a bit better, sometimes kind of sore.

But he always woke up.

Laurent opened his eyes slowly, with difficulty. He looked around and yawned before dropping his head back to where it rested close to Damen’s. This was the first time in a while that he didn’t have nightmares.

He had been in the blissful unaware, dreaming of fantasies that he forgot as soon as he was awake. Dreaming of elephants. He stirred, and then sat up carefully. Everything was quiet and he didn’t wish to disturb the peace that reigned in the apartment. Never once he had thought he’d feel this comfortable and tranquil while sleeping next to the man he was by now. It was like a dream, a far off thing from the depths of his mind.

_Damen._

The idiot that kept going back to him, no matter what.

The one that always came back.

He turned his head to see him; the dark curls sprawled on the armrest, his semi-parted lips, the rising of his chest. Laurent reached over to touch him, to lay a hand freely on Damen’s hair and his forehead. And he hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt. He felt as if his insides were being squeezed.

Damen was beautiful.

Not just attractive, it wasn’t just that. Damen had always been handsome and muscular, but he was also very beautiful. Like the statue of a gladiator. And Laurent couldn’t believe he was actually there.

How long had it taken him to realize this, though? And what had changed?

Had anything changed at all?  Maybe everything had.

At fifteen years old, Laurent had fallen for Damen more for his own person than for his looks. He had fallen for him for all the little pieces that together made Damen the person he was. Laurent liked that he was into sports, he liked his kindness, he liked the long walks they shared after school, he liked the fact that he read poetry and appreciated art and languages and music even though he had no special talent for them. He liked that he was smart and determined and confident but his tongue tangled each time he asked Laurent to hang out. He liked the nickname he had given him, Vicomte, even if he never was to acknowledge that fact out loud.

He liked that he seemed to be so simple, but wasn’t in the slightest.

It was a bit odd that, as he looked around Damen’s apartment in the dim morning light, the only thing he could think of was music. Debussy, perfectly playing inside his head. Soft melodies from his childhood.

What was happening? He didn’t know. He felt strange. Like if his world was being re-shaped and he was losing track of it all. It was a nice feeling, though. A warm feeling that eased his mind and his heart. A heart that was now playing music in his chest.

It was ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous.

He wasn’t a teen anymore.

He slid out of Damen’s embrace the best he could, and winced as his feet touched the cold floor. He’d only been in that place twice; the night after the competition, and last night, where he had showed up after running away from a broken pipe.

_Moving on…_

Laurent gave himself a minute to look around the room, something he hadn’t done before. He looked around and immediately focused on the bookshelf. French novels, mystery series, a few English romances and a lot of Greek poems collection. He hadn’t practiced his Greek since Charcy. And he found out that he missed it, quite a bit. It had been almost a challenge, to outdo Damen in his own language.

But in the end, he had broken things up before they could have had that chance.

As he walked past it and to the kitchen, suddenly, he realized he’d never cooked for Damen before either. Flushing, he opened the fridge and took everything he needed for breakfast. He couldn’t help but feel embarrassed but also kind of excited. His heart beating steadily, almost jumping. His violinist hands breaking eggs and making toast.

It was odd; it was strange, and ridiculous. He wanted to play the violin. And the piano. And everything, he wanted to play everything.

_Why?_

_Is it you, Auguste?_

Was that what his brother felt? That insisting desire to make music. The kind of want that made your skin prickle and your heart beat faster with excitement, each beat the equivalent of a single perfect musical note.

With the food on a tray, he walked out to the living room and an –although very sleepy still—awaken Damen. He was yawning, running a hand through his hair, kicking the duvet to the end of the couch and crumpling it completely. When he saw Laurent, he smiled automatically.

“Good morning, _Vicomte_.”

Laurent stepped forwards, leaving the food on the coffee table next to the plates and cups from the previous night, “Good morning.” He said, and then left a bowl full of milk in front of a cozy looking Vivi, curled up on a corner next to the bookshelf.

“You made breakfast,” Damen said, his eyes shining, “Thank you.”

He flushed, “It’s...” _the least I can do_. “I’m sorry I interrupted you last night. It won’t happen again.”

“You didn’t interrupt.” Damen shook his head as he reached over to take his hand, “I truly enjoy your company.”

“Of course you do, since I am so eloquent,” Laurent said. Damen’s smile grew. He pulled on Laurent’s arm, making him stumble and fall with one knee on the couch. “Damen—“

Damen caught him, and said nothing else as he pecked Laurent’s lips softly. It was a greeting, a happy, welcoming kiss. “Did you sleep well last night?” He whispered after he’d pulled away.

Laurent stared at him with big eyes, his heart close to having an attack or simply combust. Whichever happened first. His right hand was tangled in Damen’s, his left one pressed against his shoulder, seeking for balance as Damen pulled him closer. He said, “I did.”

Grinning, Damen said, “Good.”

“Your morning breath is absolutely disgusting,” Laurent whispered.

“Yours is gross too.”

Laurent let out a soft laugh, “Thank you.”

“Pleased to please you.” Damen replied.

Laurent moved over Damen in the couch. They stared at each other for a minute, their smirks reflected on the other’s face. He reached to brush Damen’s curls out of his face, and then to touch his nose, and his cheeks. Damen tightened the grip on Laurent’s thighs, rubbing up and down as he watched him. Laurent smiled, tracing the curve of Damen’s lips with his fingers.

It was so exquisite, so divine. To have the power to explore Damen’s skin and features, his mind no longer full of questions, but of answers. The “ _how would it be_ ?” replaced by “ _That’s how it is_.”

“See anything you like?” Damen whispered, his mouth brushing Laurent’s fingers.

“Not at all,” Laurent whispered back.

Why was Damen giving him this?

How had they ended up this way?

He couldn’t remember the moment it started; perhaps because it had begun too long ago, because their story hadn’t ended when he thought it had, but instead it continued.

Because his feelings for Damen had never really stopped, not even after everything that had happened between them.

“Hey,” Damen said, reaching up a hand to caress Laurent’s cheek, “Where are you?”

Laurent looked at him but didn’t reply. He didn’t want to think, not now. He didn’t want to make things more complicated; he just wanted to let himself feel what he had tried to bottle up for so many years. He wanted to understand himself, and Damen. He wanted to finally comprehend what was happening.

So, he leaned over slowly, carefully, until they were close enough to kiss again. But he didn’t move forward, he held himself still. Damen pressed their foreheads together, and Laurent closed his eyes. They stood like that for what seemed forever, just breathing each other in, memorizing the sound of their heartbeats together; they harmonized perfectly.

He thought Damen would close the gap between them, but he didn’t. Instead, he just kissed Laurent’s nose. Laurent opened his eyes in a silent question, and Damen smiled.

It was sweet, tender, with no hurry. It wasn’t awkward or compromised. It was intimate, slow yet confident. The innocence from their teenage years still there in the background, allowing them to regain the connection they once had.

It reminded Laurent of music. The way two instruments mingled together, producing a perfect melody. How they both could be so different and yet they could make harmony. Two dissonant sounds becoming an euphony.

Laurent kissed him again, finally. Softly, sweetly, tenderly. His senses coming alive as their lips touched once more. “Breakfast,” he said, and then pulled away.

“You truly are charismatic in the mornings,” Damen said with a grin as he reached for his cup of coffee.

“You can’t keep your mouth shut, can you?”  Laurent said, words laced with slight annoyance.

Damen smirked behind his cup, “You’re doing it again.”

Laurent blinked, “What?”

“You’re touching your piercing.”

Laurent said nothing.

 

 

***

Neither of them knew how to fix a broken pipe.

And Laurent found that as amusing as he found it annoying. It wasn’t possible that they couldn’t work it out. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed.

_Auguste, did you know how to fix a broken pipe?_

_You probably did._

He had just finished cleaning the mess of water from the living room when Damen’s voice came from the hall, “Yeah, you know what? This is not going to work.”

“No luck?” Laurent asked, leaning his weight on the mop.

Damen emerged from the guests’ bathroom and fixed his hair bun, “No. I’m having troubles with one of the pieces.”

Laurent sighed, “This is pathetic. I’m calling a plumber.”

“Don’t call a plumber; he’ll only steal your money!” Damen said, “I’m calling Nikandros.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow, “Nikandros knows how to fix a broken pipe? Isn’t his brain the size of a nut?”

Damen gave him a look, “Why do you hate each other so much? You used to be friends in high school.”

“Yeah well, we used to be too and look how we ended up,” Laurent said, annoyed. Damen didn’t respond, but Laurent could see the way his body tensed up. He had screwed up again. “I,” he started, “I didn’t mean that.”

“I see your peculiar taste in hurting other people’s feelings hasn’t changed much, has it?” Damen mumbled, scrolling down his phone.

He was about to speak when Damen started talking, “Hey Nik. Do you know how to fix a broken pipe?” He waited, “Okay, this might sound a bit weird but…can you come to Laurent’s house? I need your help with this.”

After an awkward silence, he spoke again, “Okay, see you in ten.” Damen hung up and they both stared at each other.

“So?” Laurent asked.

“He’s coming over,” Damen replied, and then added, with a sort of plead, “Be nice.”

“May I remind you he’s the one that’s been hating on me?” Laurent said.

That owed him another look, “May I remind you he’s the one that will fix your pipe?”

Laurent mocked him in response, “May I remind you he’s the one that will fix your pipe?” he said, imitating Damen’s low voice.

“Laurent, don’t be a kid.”

He did it again, “Laurent, don’t be a kid.”

Damen said, “Stop it.”

“Stop it.”

“I hate you,” Damen said.

“No, you don’t.”

“I know.”

Laurent grinned, “Are you sure you missed me these past four years?”

Damen said, “Every day.” Then, he reached to tuck a rebel strand of hair behind Laurent’s ear.

“You don’t mean that,” Laurent whispered.

“I do.”

_Why are you giving me this?_

_When I’ve hurt you so much, why?_

“You’re truly a masochist,” Laurent said.

“It’s because you’re a good kisser,” Damen joked and took his hand. “Or maybe,” he whispered, rubbing Laurent’s hand with his thumbs, making circles, “Maybe we’re soul mates.”

Soul mates.

Half oranges.

_“Maybe when we meet our soulmates, we hear music. Maybe that’s how we find them.”_

He had heard a song for Damen once. And it was Chopin’s. But this feeling was different from back then. It was overwhelming, he felt as if he was drowning in it. The days passed, but it never stopped.

He felt as if though his heart wanted to scream something.

_What is this?_

 

 

***

Nikandros arrived a few minutes later. He barely spoke at Laurent, directing all his attention to Damen. If something Laurent had to admit, though, in spite of his constant fight with Nikandros, was that he knew what he was doing.

He fixed the pipe in a matter of minutes, perhaps half an hour. And it had taken all morning for him and Damen to realize that they were probably doing everything wrong.

_Moving on…_

Laurent sat and watched. He wasn’t one for conversations, and he was more interested in watching Damen take off his wet shirt instead.

Nikandros had hated him since that day in June where he hurt Jord and Damen’s feelings. He had tried to punch him once, and Auguste had stopped him. After that, he simply ignored him, and if he could he’d groan or glare at him, just to make sure Laurent felt the hatred.

 _My voice disappeared, much to_ _everyone_ _'s joy, because_ _everyone_ _hates_ _the words_ _I say_ _._

If things could be changed, if he was given another choice besides the one he took by then, would he take it?

Would he change it all?

The things that caused him misery, the things that caused them all misery, would he take it back? Or would he repeat it?

No…he probably wouldn’t. Because then again, he could change his actions, but not those of others. Aimeric would have still broken his violin. And he couldn’t forgive that. He still couldn’t.

But what if he could?

Would he still have broken the music box?

 _Life_ , he thought, _is made of moments_ and _choices_.

He snapped out of his thoughts when Nikandros came to speak to him. It was so unexpected that even Damen froze on his feet.

Laurent looked up at him, but before he could muster a word, Nikandros said, “Jord is having an exhibition. He won’t tell you, but he wants you to come.”

He was surprised, but he didn’t let it show on his face. Not to Nikandros. “Jord has a tongue, doesn’t he? If he wanted me to go, he should invite me himself.”

Nikandros glared at him, “And whose fault is that, asshole? I don’t care what you do. I did my part by telling you.”

He realized then, that he was given a choice. It was probably the last one he’d have. And there were things he had been avoiding for years, but that he needed to resolve.

_“It’s not about forgetting, or forgiving. It’s about living. The burdens we carry, they’re growing pains. The only way to live, is letting them go.”_

Auguste had said that. He couldn’t remember if it had been a dream or not, but he needed to do that. Now, he understood.

His heart had started to scream, and it wouldn’t stop. He needed to fix things, and let them go.

_Okay, Auguste._

_I’m trusting you._

 

 

***

“Nicaise.”

Laurent opened the door to find him there, standing in the porch, wet from head to toes. His eyes widened in shock for a minute, but soon enough rage took over. He had been waiting on him for more than an hour, and being irresponsibility one of the things Laurent hated the most in life, he was more than furious. He thought that Nicaise better had a good excuse for missing his lessons.

Nicaise held his gaze, his blue eyes inhibited, which was rare in him. The air was tense, filled with all the questions that Laurent wanted to ask and that Nicaise probably wouldn’t answer.

“Can I stay here tonight, please?” Nicaise asked, his voice weaker than usual.

Laurent said, “What happened to you?”

Nicaise stepped in, leaving a trail of water as he did. He didn’t answer Laurent’s question, but rather just stood there. Laurent closed the door behind him and walked over to where Nicaise was standing, “Nicaise?”

“I—What?”

Laurent raised an eyebrow and was about to speak when he noticed something. Nicaise had a long cut across his forehead, with blood still dripping out of it.  He looked pale and shaken and his wet, mahogany hair was mixed with red. Laurent didn’t know where to start, so he decided on a simple question, “Did you—walk here? In the rain, on your own?”

Nicaise seemed to tense up, “Yes.”

Laurent grabbed his face to examine it, his thumbs pressing on Nicaise’s cheeks. He had a bruise on his right side, and the fresh blood had washed down with the rain onto his face, then sticking there, making Nicaise’s beautifully young face look rather gruesome and older than it should.

“Let go of me,” Nicaise said, moving away from his grip.

Laurent looked at him for a moment before saying, “Come with me.”

He didn’t touch Nicaise again, but just waited till he followed him to the living room where Damen was absorbedly watching one of the TV shows he liked. He had stayed after Nikandros had fixed the pipe and Laurent couldn’t complain; Damen was good at cleaning fast.  His cheery smile faded, though, as soon as he saw the state Nicaise was at.

“Holy shit,” he said, getting up from the couch, “Nicaise, are you alright?”

Before Nicaise could respond, Laurent said, “Damen, can you bring the first aid kit?”

Damen nodded and disappeared through the hall, then came back with a white box and a towel. Nicaise was shivering as he sat on the couch, but he looked as imperturbable as ever. Damen wrapped the towel around his shoulders and sat in front of him, “How did you get that cut?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

Laurent suppressed the urge to smoothen the factions on Damen’s face and watched as how, very gentle as ever, Damen started to clean the cut and gauze it up. He apologized as Nicaise winced in pain from the alcohol. He had a déjà vu then.

Damen had bandaged his fingers once. It wasn’t the same, but he couldn’t help but remember it. To the point he felt he’d be back in time and wake up in the music room at Charcy.

“I fell,” Nicaise whispered, between his teeth, “Down the stairs.”

“Did you?” Damen asked, his eyebrows rising. He finished up fast, and then he was moving onto the bruise on his cheek. “Does it hurt anywhere else?”

Nicaise shook his head, and surprisingly, Damen didn’t press it. Laurent supposed it was because perhaps they were thinking of the same thing. He closed the first aids kit and sent a look to Laurent, his eyes widening slightly for a second.

_I don’t believe him._

“Go take a shower,” He told Nicaise, who looked up to meet his eyes again, “I’ll put your clothes in the dryer.”

Nicaise obeyed and disappeared to the bathroom.  He was alone with Damen now, and he took a hand to his neck, trying to rub the tension away.

“You’re worried,” Damen said. Always making statements and never making questions.

“I am irritated,” Laurent said, then moved to the storage closet to get clean towels. He opened the door and reached over to a drawer, taking out two dark blue towels that he hugged to his chest.

“Laurent.”

“No, Damen.”

Damen sighed, “I know you are.”

Laurent closed his eyes and inhaled, “Yes,” he whispered, “Yes. I know that. That’s why I’m irritated.” He closed the closet door, “Because I shouldn’t be.”

“Nicaise is just a kid. And he’s so…similar to you. In a way. And you’ve been spending so much time together—“

“No.” Laurent said.

_No._

_He’s more like Auguste._

Nicaise reminded him of Auguste. Perhaps at first it was hard to see it. But once you did, you couldn’t really go back. Nicaise was sometimes rude and loud and irreverent, and yet, he was a passionate musician. He worked hard, and always wanted to exceed his abilities. He didn’t care if he had to tear his fingers open on the strings and bleed all over the violin, he’d keep practicing until he was satisfied with his own result. And even so, the next day, he’d go back and tell Laurent he needed more.

Laurent knew he enjoyed it, he knew he liked to play. And when he did, he could make you feel something. He motivated Laurent as a teacher, even if sometimes it was hard to keep up with the whole thing.

He had so much talent…

And he didn’t want him to be another could have been. He didn’t want it to be another frustrated violinist, or the character that didn’t make the cut.

He _was_ worried.

_When you love something, be prepared to lose it._

That thought hurt. It hurt all over.

“Laurent?” Damen whispered. He was rubbing his shoulder softly.

“Sorry,” he whispered back.

“You left,” Damen said, “Where were you?”

“I got lost thinking,” he said. And then, “I’ll go get some clothes for Nicaise. Can you put his in the dryer?”

Damen nodded, “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

When Damen walked away, he went into his room. Certainly, there were some old clothes that would probably fit the teenager. He didn’t want to think.

He didn’t want to think because, if he did, he’d go back to sinking. He’d go back to the cave, with the corpses and red flowers.

He paid no attention to the cold sweat in his neck and got an old pair of jeans and a shirt for Nicaise. He left them on the toilet lid and then went back to the living room. He sat on the couch with Vivi and pet his fur, then pressed softly into his paws.

The kitten was getting bigger and bigger. He was more playful now, less shy, but he still liked to slide into Laurent’s bed and sleep next to him. He truly enjoyed sitting on Damen’s head and had a nice collection of mouse toys.

“You truly have no shame, do you?” He whispered as Vivi presented him his tummy. Laurent rubbed it, making Vivi purr lovingly.

Laurent smiled and leaned over to kiss Vivi’s face. The cat responded by licking his nose with his scratchy tongue, and that was enough to calm Laurent down.

He had to admit that Damen had been right.

Vivaldi was a companion. And he seemed to know when Laurent needed him. Some days, Laurent wouldn’t be able to find him. He was either sleeping under a bed or licking himself behind the laundry machine and it was sort of funny to discover the places Vivi liked to explore. But some other days, when Laurent was at his worst, Vivi was always around him. Walking in circles on his legs or simply sitting by his side.

He was a friend.

He managed to help him when Damen couldn’t. Sometimes, he just needed that.

After a while, Damen came to sit with them. “I might need to get Vivi a collar, now that he’s grown.”

“I think that’d be good,” Laurent said, scratching behind Vivi’s ears, “Lately he’s been out in the garden more. I’m afraid he might find a hole and escape.”

“Well, they say cats usually remember the way back,” Damen said, reaching over to brush Vivi’s head.

“He loves attention,” Laurent said, “He has two people petting him and all he does is purr.”

Damen laughed, “Oh, just like you!”

Laurent rolled his eyes, “I don’t have two people giving me attention.”

“No, but you have these two hands.” Damen said, and winked.

Laurent flushed and looked away. He hated Damen.

He did.

Now he understood; the feeling in his chest was pure hatred. Affection? What Affection?

He was ready to strike back when Nicaise walked downstairs. Laurent couldn’t decide if he looked better clean. Because now, the bruises on his skin were more apparent. His arms, that had been covered by a long sleeve, were now exposed. Revealing more bruises and cuts like the ones on his face.

He looked exhausted.

“Do the clothes fit okay?” Laurent asked, ignoring the way his heart was beating oddly.

“Yeah, think so.” Nicaise said and shrugged. He sat down on the floor next to Damen and undid a lace from his shoe. Vivi was immediately attracted. He left Damen and moved to play with Nicaise, who held the lace over Vivi and twisted it constantly.

He exchanged a look with Damen.

“Nicaise,” He started.

Nicaise whispered, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You are covered in bruises. Your skin is almost completely purple.” Laurent said, “Tell me the truth.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” He repeated.

“You disappeared today and then you show up half dead to my door and ask me to let you stay here, and then you refuse to give any possible explanation.” Laurent said, “What—Do I need to call your parents or something? Because I am—“

“No,” Nicaise interrupted, “No. You don’t—don’t.”

“Tell me what happened, Nicaise.” Laurent insisted again.

Biting his lower lip, “I can’t—“

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.” He said, then.

His heart stopped a second.

He had lived that already, hadn’t he?

Was it a déjà vu?

Nicaise looked up at him. He was teary eyed, and it broke the image of impassiveness Nicaise still managed to keep up, in spite of it all.

Suddenly, he saw it too.

The stubbornness, the irreverence, the moody teenage outbursts, the secrets.

Laurent saw in Nicaise a part of him, as well. It was a reflection. Like a mirror.

He was only hoping he was in time for stop it from breaking.


	21. Pas de deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurent's first Christmas without Auguste. 
> 
> This chapter begins and finishes with scenes from the past, specifically the Christmas after the Halloween special from the High School Arc (The Anthem of the Heart parts)  
> After the initial scene, we're in the present with Laurent and Damen after Auguste's gone (three months after his death).  
> Chapter 20 ended up in November, with a huge Nicaise cliffhanger that wasn't in my plans (I'm sorry), this chapter is set on December that same year. Next week, Chapter 22 will continue with the events of Chapter 20, so technically this is like an intermission.  
> I didn't post it separatedly from the original story as I did with the Halloween chapter because I felt this one was really important for the plot and development of the characters. I hope this isn't too confusing, but if it is, let me know and I'll explain the best I can!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First update of 2017 *inhales* Feels so good.  
> Hello, friends! Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year.  
> This took me longer than I thought but I'm very happy with the result, so I hope you enjoy it! I really hope you enjoyed your holidays and that his new year brings happiness, health and success to all of you and your families and loved ones.  
> Thank you for your support and patience and for the love you continue to give my story and my characters even when sometimes I get blocked and write not-so-great chapters. Really, thank you. Étude will finish this year, i don't know exactly when but until that happens, please continue to read my words<3
> 
> P.S. I added a chapter summary to explain a bit of how this chapter works in the Étude chronology.

There is an old song by Debussy titled _The Snow is Dancing_. It is quite difficult to play, requiring precise semi-detached movements in both hands, with the melody between them. It is a song for experienced musicians, ambitious pianists with the soul of a child.

Unlike Auguste, Laurent was not very fond of Debussy. He liked his repertoire, it wasn’t bad. But it lacked the precision and details of Ravel’s work that Laurent admired. When Ravel let you see the drops of rain in his picture, Debussy focused on the garden behind it. He had a way of playing too general for Laurent’s liking, too deliberate and disordered. He had written many masterpieces, that couldn’t be denied, but if he had to choose between those two, Maurice Ravel would win.

However, there was an exception, like everything in life.                            

It wasn’t the _Clair de lune_ that Auguste loved to death, but the infamous suite he had composed for his daughter Chouchou, _Children’s corner_. It was for solo piano, and definitely not meant to be played by children, but rather evoke the long-lost memories of childhood. The pieces can be looked at sentimentally through the experienced eyes of an adult or innocently through the uncorrupted mind of a child.  Perhaps, in more depth, it could be considered an exploration through music of the psyche of a child.  Laurent had a memory for each song. _Jimbo’s Lullaby_ reminded him of Auguste treating his bruises, of ugly nights spent locked in dark rooms. Every time his uncle mistreated him, he tried the best he could to focus on that song. It was his way of escaping his reality, humming that song to himself in the dark until Auguste came for him. In his mind, that song was equal for the word ‘endure’ or ‘resist’ the same way a circus elephant was probably meant to live with abusive masters.

The song about snow, though, didn’t bring him any unpleasant memory. On the opposite, it only reminded him of good things; winter break, Auguste’s birthday, Christmas and gifts and mugs of hot chocolate. As a child, every time it snowed, rLaurent would sit down and watch it dance outside his window. The snowflakes always seemed to be in sync with the notes, twirling around in spirals with the wind, turning the entire world white.

It was pretty to watch, it was calming and fascinating. Like a dream coming true around him. Even when he used to be sickish during winter time, he enjoyed the whole season.

As he grew up, that hadn’t changed.

His parents were gone, and Christmas wasn’t the same as before, but Auguste always found a way for them to have fun. Usually, Damen’s family or Jord’s invited them for dinner on Christmas Eve, and they spent the 25th together at home, watching movies and eating new meals. It was kind of a tradition now, trying to make a new recipe while watching The Polar Express (with Auguste singing to every single song).

This year, though, it seemed like they’d have other plans. Auguste’s birthday was on the 23rd, and somehow he had convinced Laurent to have a Christmas and Birthday party in their house that day.

He still didn’t know how to react to that. Since the beginning of the school year, things had turned out…weird. Even more after Halloween, where he had spent the night chasing ghosts in a haunted mansion with his brother and his friends. He liked it, though.

He wouldn’t admit it, but he liked it. To feel included. Even if it was just a bit.

Now, they had all agreed to a party and a gift exchange. Rules were, you had to bring a present for everyone, but Auguste received two. A birthday one and a Christmas one, no exceptions.

Laurent had made that rule.

Mostly because Auguste always gave his friends gifts on their birthdays, and he had the same right to enjoy both celebrations. Hell, he even gave them chocolates on Valentine’s Day (which he also called the day of love _and_ friendship.) It was only fair that he received the same treatment.

None of them had protested.

He counted the tempo as he moved his fingers on the keyboard, lowly whispering to himself. It was such a tricky song to play, Debussy’s. Looking up from his hands to the window, he tried to focus on the falling of the snow as he found the notes by ear.

“Wrong.”

He stopped, inhaling and turning to look at his brother in annoyance, “It wasn’t.”

“It was,” Auguste said, grinning, “Don’t look so mad, I’m only tea—“

“Where was it wrong?” Laurent asked, fighting the urge to slam on the keys.The violin was so much better.

“The last note of the bass near the middle, you played the wrong B.” Auguste moved to sit on the bench next to him, “Why are you playing such a sad song, anyway?”

“It’s not sad,” Laurent said, trying to play the note correctly this time, “It’s kind of dark.”

It was, indeed, kind of dark. It was a song for the quiet, mysterious minds. It was full of melancholy and longing for something that’s been lost, and yet it can still be sweet and subdued.

“That was good,” Auguste said, “But you’re using the pedal wrong. Use half pedal when the damper pedal is indicated.  The poor snowflakes are turning into drizzle.”

It was hard to do, but he tried. He moved his foot on the pedal and tried from the beginning. Along with the nimbleness of touch, it made the song the most technically challenging piece of the whole suite. Eventually, he gave up, closing his Debussy book and tossing it to the floor with his school bag.

“Let’s play something faster,” Auguste suggested, pulling his sweater sleeves up, “Four hands. Are you ready?”

Laurent raised an eyebrow, “Is that a challenge, brother?”

“You always want to win, don’t you?” Auguste grinned.

“I _always_ win.” Laurent replied, “That’s different.”

Auguste started to play, _Golliwogg's Cakewalk,_ his favorite from the set. For some reason, it made Laurent think of black and white movies. It was comical and entertaining. It had the kind of rhythm of the songs they used as background for the old mute films, and playing it was fun, if not tedious. It was complicated, more in four hands, when he had to be careful and not step wrongly into Auguste’s notes.

It was great, until his fingers tangled and he messed up on the song, making Auguste chuckle and take over, changing to the normal two hands solo piano. Laurent hated how easily he made it look –playing that monster of an instrument. It was as though it had a life of its own and loved to make it more difficult to Laurent.

He got up from the bench, giving up completely, and Auguste stopped playing, “You’re such a bad loser.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve gotten better, though,” Auguste said, smiling, “I thought you didn’t practice on the piano anymore.”

“It is mandatory for all music students,” Laurent stretched, “To play the piano properly. We’ll have exams on Beethoven and Bach next week, before break.”

“But you were playing Debussy,” Auguste looked at him with a frown.

Laurent shrugged, “I got distracted.”

“I was going to ask you if you wanted to go shopping with me tomorrow,” Auguste said, playing some random notes on the piano, “For the party. And to stock up for Christmas, too.”

Nodding, Laurent cracked one of his fingers, “Sure. What are we making this year?”

“The lady next door gave me a South American recipe to make ham bread. I really want to try to make it.”

“Then we will,” Laurent said, “Are we making food for the party too?”

“Probably baked ziti since everyone likes it,” Auguste shrugged, “Hey…do you want to practice with me for a bit?”

“I’m done with the piano,” Laurent groaned, “It’s frustrating me.”

“I bet the piano is frustrated with you too,” Auguste shook his head, “Playing Debussy as horribly as you were.”

“Auguste!”

“I feel sorry for the poor instrument.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Debussy must be rolling on his—“

On an impulse, Laurent pushed his brother off the piano bench. It was so unexpected and with enough force that Auguste fell, a dry echo on the floor followed by a painful grunt, “Why did you do that?!”

“You provoked me,” Laurent said, and walked away.

 

***

He woke up feeling sick.

His limbs were heavy, his head was throbbing, he felt stones inside his stomach, even though he had not eaten in more than ten hours, and he felt an odd pressure on his chest.

Earlier that week, Laurent wasn’t sure how he would react. He had expected some sort of breakdown, maybe anger and general uneasiness. He had feared that day since the month started, and yet weeks later, he was not sure he was prepared to face it. He couldn’t.   He had not expected to feel as sick as he was, and to know that he wouldn’t feel better with some soup and medicine. This was not an illness that was curable with naps and cold relievers.

It was actually a never-ending fever.

Grief, the disease of the soul.

Laurent opened his eyes, trying to adjust to the light seeping through the window of his bedroom. He moved carefully, not knowing where Vivi was and afraid to hurt him by accident.

It was December 23rd.

He rolled on his side and grabbed his phone, the screen lit up as he pressed on the home button, black numbers indicating it was six in the morning. He lay his head back and unlocked the phone, then dialed the first number he knew by heart.

Auguste’s phone hadn’t been disconnected yet. He couldn’t bring himself to call the company and do it. It was probable that, at some point, maybe after New Year’s; they’d do it themselves due to lack of payment or whatever reason. But for the time being, Laurent didn’t wish to do it.

He closed his eyes, and felt his heart speeding up as Auguste’s cheerful voice spoke through the recording machine.

_“You have reached Auguste de Vere’s voice mail, I can’t take your call right now but leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”_

Laurent swallowed, counting the seconds, and then he opened his eyes. He watched the dust flakes dancing on the ceiling, falling above him, and he heard Vivi meowing as he tried to find a way out of the duvet. He counted the seconds, and made his world stop for half of them.

He tried to break the space and time; he tried to submerge himself into those infinite seconds where, at last, everything finally stopped.

He swallowed, trying to push down the knot on his throat, ignoring completely the pain in his chest, “Happy 24th Birthday, Auguste.” And then, “I love you.”

_There are so many things I wish I could say, and yet so many that I wouldn’t, if I had the chance. Because that’s how it is, isn’t it? We never speak up when we can, and then we wish we could when we cannot. But isn’t it funny? Isn’t it so contradictory?_

_I ask myself, and I ask the rest of us: wasn’t it easier, to speak up in the first place?_

_And we keep doing it, that’s the worst part. We keep lying to ourselves each time, because it’s easier than to face the truths we don’t want to say. And we keep regretting, later. And wishing for chances we already lost._

_There are so many things I wish I could tell you, Auguste, but those are the same that I wouldn’t tell you if you were alive. So now I don’t know whether it’d be fair to say that I miss you, even if I do. Because I did you so wrong, even when I didn’t mean to._

_I keep doing you so wrong, and I can’t seem to stop._

_But I miss you, you know? And I hope you miss me too._

And he hung up, and the world kept its course again.

 

***

Damen wasn’t very sure what he expected to find when he went to Laurent’s house.

Obviously not the fact that Laurent was lying on his bed, refusing to leave the room, much less the house, refusing to eat anything and in a state of bitter apathy towards everything and everyone. It wasn’t odd, though. It shouldn’t surprise Damen, considering the day it was.

He had been washing his teeth when he remembered. It hit him like a slap on the cheek. Toothbrush falling off his hand, with toothpaste still in his mouth and his bed hair a big joke reflecting on the mirror.

December 23rd. Auguste’s birthday.

His first thought after that had been just one word.

_Laurent._

Practically, he ignored his own feelings. Of course he was afflicted. Of course he wanted to sit down and cry like a child. Of course he wanted to lay down and refuse to acknowledge the world’s continuous bragging on how everyone kept going when his best friend was dead. He wished for those things and more. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and he didn’t want to see his family. He didn’t want to see his dad, as much as he loved him, and he didn’t want to deal with Kastor. He just couldn’t make himself care for any of that now.

Everything was collapsing. He felt as though everything he truly cared about in life was collapsing, now. Auguste was dead, his dad’s company was going down, his brother was a total asshole, his friends were all separated and fighting, he didn’t know what to do regarding his career, and his…Laurent--because he wasn’t sure if whatever was happening between them could be labeled in some form--was succumbing to an act of depression, which, as understandable it was, still made Damen’s heart break in two, three, four million pieces.

It didn’t feel like Christmas was just hours away. It didn’t feel like soon enough it’d be also New Year’s Eve and 2016 would be gone forever.

It wasn’t supposed to feel this bad. It wasn’t supposed to be so blue.

“At least eat something,” Damen insisted as gently as he could, “Please, you haven’t eaten anything all day. You’re going to get sick.”

Laurent didn’t respond, and Damen knew he was pretending not to listen. Laurent was never like this.

Or perhaps he was.

He understood then, how Laurent ended up the way he was when Damen came back from Ios. How, after the funeral, he looked half dead. He had fainted while playing the piano and he had a severe case of anemia. Laurent didn’t like to show weakness, he’d rather cut out his own snake tongue before having to display any act of vulnerability. He had been like this before, only that he hid it well enough so no one else would notice.

But now, he was allowing Damen to see it. Or maybe he just was in such a state that he simply didn’t give a shit anymore.

Whatever the reason was didn’t make it any less worrying for Damen, however.

He set the plate with the sandwich he had made on the nightstand and reached down to brush a strand of Laurent’s hair off his forehead. Laurent looked like he was somewhere else. His mind was somewhere else, he wasn’t there.

Damen always wondered where he went, when he left like that. He sometimes imagined that he had a world of his own, a safe place within the corners of his own perception that allowed him to hide there when the situation demanded it. By now, Damen was used to it. To Laurent leaving. Physically, mentally. Damen knew sometimes Laurent didn’t do it on purpose. He just got lost inside his own maze of thoughts.

When Laurent came back, his eyes focused on Damen, and he leaned towards the touch. Damen smiled.

“I don’t feel so good,” Laurent whispered, closing his eyes like a cat. Like Vivi, when Damen pet him.

“I know,” Damen said, “I don’t feel so good either.”

“You don’t have to stay here,” Laurent said, “You can go home.”

“I know,” Damen sighed, “But I don’t want to. I want to be here with you.”

Laurent opened his eyes, “You must be either really crazy or really stupid to want that.”

“I’m crazy for you,” Damen said, and winked with picardy.

Laurent chuckled, it was involuntary. And then he leaned back against the pillows, Vivi moving to snuggle him closer.

“Vivi doesn’t want to eat either,” Damen said, sitting on the edge of the bed next to them, “I tried with milk, tuna, I even got salmon, but he didn’t even sniff it.”

“He’s been with me all day, he hasn’t moved from the room.” Laurent whispered, petting the cat’s head slowly.

“He knows you’re sad, and wants to keep you company.”

“He’s really smart, isn’t he?”

“Like his owner,” Damen said, smiling.

Laurent said nothing. And for a moment Damen thought he had made a mistake, but then Laurent moved on the bed, leaving enough space for Damen to lay down next to him. He did, and Laurent lifted the cover to throw it over his legs too. In a low breath, he said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Laurent replied.

They were side by side, golden and dark hair sprawled on the pillows, shoulders touching, legs immediately tangling like they liked to do when they slept together. Feet fighting under the covers, hands looking for their twins. They connected physically, like they did mentally. Or so they tried, their souls.

To be as close to the other as they could.

He liked that, in spite of the pain Laurent was in, he was not pushing Damen away anymore. At least not today, when Damen needed him just as much.

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” Damen whispered and he stared at the ceiling. Suddenly he wondered how it was before, Laurent’s room. When they were in high school, how was his room? What had changed? What had stayed the same?

“I’ll skip it,” Laurent whispered.

“I wish you didn’t,” Damen said, then. And he meant it. It was probably that Christmas this year would suck, but if he got to spend it with Laurent, maybe it wouldn’t suck as much. “Eat your sandwich.”

“What does it have?”

“Grilled cheese and spinach,” Damen said.

“Fine, then. I’ll eat it.”

Damen grabbed the plate and placed it on Laurent’s lap, who sat up reluctantly. “Hey Laurent.”

“Yes, Damen?”

“Can I…ask you something?” He asked, biting his bottom lip.

Laurent turned his head to look at him, his blue eyes curiously interested, “What is it?”

 

***

In reality, _The Nutcracker_ was probably Laurent’s least favorite from Tchaikovsky’s repertoire. If he was asked about a piece by the Russian, the first one to come to his thoughts would probably be the _Swan Lake Waltz_ . Most people confused it with _Dance of the Swans_ , but when this one was slow and dreary, focusing on the mixed sentiments of tragedy Odette is feeling due to being transformed into a swan, the other one is explosive and victorious and cheerful. It was one of his favorite parts of the ballet – the beginning.

It made him think of those two enemy Princes, both displaying their equal yet different power. At first, it is like a fight. Uneven territory, they don’t know anything about the other. But that’s when the sound changes forever. If he was to give them a song, that would be probably the one. Usually, the songs that attracted him the most were the hidden works by the composers. Those that the general public didn’t know about, that only people that knew how and where to look could find them.

Ironically, though, when he was a child, the first songs he learnt by Tchaikovsky were mostly from _The Nutcracker._ And he liked it, still. But it was kind of when you read a good book by a great author and then decide to read another one, and turns out you liked the second one best, and suddenly the first book slides to the background and ends up in a lost corner of your mind. And if someone asks you if you’ve read that book, you’ll say _yes, of course I have_ , but only to go more into detail about the second one.

That was _The Nutcracker_ for Laurent de Vere.

He was surprised when Damen invited him to go see the ballet on Christmas Eve.

He had said _, “I know you love Tchaikovsky.”_ With such fondness that Laurent had agreed to go. It wasn’t easy, though, when his whole self was telling him to stay in bed. The day before, Auguste’s birthday, he had felt like if he had gone to hell and back. He missed his brother so much that it felt like a curse, he felt it physically, in his bones and joints and every little part of him that existed and that he didn’t know could ache so badly.

It was as if he was being murdered slowly. One memory at a time. His brain, happy to comply, bringing back his worst moments. Reminding him of all the pain he had caused his brother in life. Of all the fights, all the ugly words neither of them meant but had said, anyway.

If Laurent had played him a song, would it have been the same?

He had asked himself this question before, many, many times. The answer, however, never came.

_“What do you want to do on your birthday, Lo?”_

_“Nothing in particular,” Laurent replied, turning the page of his book._

_Auguste was home, which by now was a rare occasion that both of them tried to enjoy to the fullest, because they never knew when they’d have to rush in the middle of the night to the hospital again. His older brother had been discharged from the hospital two weeks ago, and all he could seem to talk about was Laurent’s birthday that was tomorrow._

_Honestly, Laurent wished to skip it. He felt awful, like he did not have anything to celebrate. Auguste was sick; and all Laurent did was stress about it. In school, at home, sleeping, taking a shower. All he did was think about it, even if he tried not to._

_And he felt bad that, when Auguste returned home, he felt worse. It felt odd, weird. Because he did no longer see his brother the way he did before they knew he was ill. Even if, during those rare times where he could try to have a normal life in spite of the treatment, Auguste acted like normal, like he always had, and he dressed like nothing had changed, and did grocery shopping and cooked and played the piano and even scolded Laurent for leaving cups of tea everywhere, Laurent couldn’t act the same._

_He just couldn’t. He hated the fact that his brain was not letting him see Auguste as his beloved older brother but as the sickness that was killing him. He hated himself for that._

_“But we have to celebrate,” Auguste said, folding clothes on the couch. “Maybe you could invite some friends over. Or, we could go see a movie. Anything you want, really.”_

_Laurent sighed. Auguste was trying, he definitely was. “I really don’t want to do anything, Auguste.”_

_“What if we go have dinner somewhere fancy? You can pick the place. Oh, there’s also Hard Rock Café! You’ve never been there, have you? It’s really cool, actually. We could invite Victoria too, if you don’t mind. And I could get a ca—“_

_“Auguste,” Laurent said. He threw his book down, clenching his teeth, trying to bite his tongue as hardest as he could, “I don’t—I don’t want to celebrate my birthday, alright? There’s nothing to celebrate. So please, I’d appreciate it if you stopped talking about it.”_

_Auguste stopped. The shirt he was folding was left on his lap, and the look he sent Laurent was a mix of sadness and mild anger._

_He had screwed up._

_“How can you say that? It’s your birthday, and I’m out of the hospital.” Auguste said, “Of course it is a motive of celebration! Plus, you’re about to finish your first year of college, isn’t that exciting?”_

_“But you’re not fine,” Laurent said, and he could taste blood in his mouth. Blood from biting his poisonous tongue, but it didn’t seem to be working, he was talking, words were flowing out of his mouth at an unstoppable speed, “Stop acting like you’re fine when you’re not. Stop acting like everything’s okay when it’s not, it’s not, you might need surgery, you—“_

_Auguste said, raising his voice, “I don’t want to think about it.” Laurent couldn’t read him, he couldn’t read his feelings, and that had never happened before, “I’m sorry, I simply wanted to spend some time with you. I didn’t want to ruin your birthday as well, since I’ve already ruined a lot of things for you.”_

_“You haven’t--It’s not your fault that you’re sick,” Laurent said, and felt his heart panicking. He didn’t want to upset his brother, that wasn’t his intention at all._

_Auguste snapped, “But you act like it was! You act and talk like I caused this on myself. Do you think I like it? Do you think I’m not terrified?” His hands were fists on the shirt he had been folding, “I just wanted—I wanted…”_

_He saw them, the first tears._

_I screwed up._

_“Augus—“_

_“I wanted to celebrate your birthday, Laurent, because I don’t know if I’ll be here for your next one,” he said. His eyes were angry, his voice was angry, reflecting the poisonous words of Laurent, “Please go, leave me alone. I don’t want to see you right now.”_

_No. No. No._

_No, Auguste, I—_

_“Auguste,” he tried again._

_“I don’t want to be with you right now.” He said, wiping away his tears with one hand._

_Laurent stood up with his book and left the room, not glancing back._

Why did he always say the opposite of what he meant? Why did he work that way? He had not meant to upset Auguste, he had not meant to harm him. He was just sad, and tired, and angry. But not at his brother, perhaps not at anyone in particular.

He took one last glance to the house as he closed the door and locked it quickly. They had both agreed to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in Damen’s apartment. And to be honest, Laurent was relieved. He didn’t want to be in the house.

Damen’s apartment was different; it was small and cozy and full of things that didn’t remind him of all the loved ones he had lost. Damen had greek books and funny movies and a washing machine that made a strange sound at night and a fridge older than both of them and the bathroom was miniature sized which made Laurent laugh each time Damen tried to take a bath.

It wasn’t like his house, it wasn’t full of ghosts.

It was cold outside, about minus two Celsius. Winter had arrived on full force. Before, when he was a child, winter meant joy. It meant school break, holidays and Auguste’s birthday. It meant cake and hot chocolate and presents and the little musicals they made every year on Christmas Eve.

Now, it meant nothing more but dead trees, never-ending carols and the disgusting scent of peppermint everywhere you turned. It meant loneliness and cold, no warmth and fun.

How fast life changed. How easy was to lose track of it.

It was his first Christmas without his older brother.

The first time they wouldn’t decorate a tree together, or watch The Polar Express while cooking. The first year Auguste wouldn’t wrap him up in sweaters and scarves before he went out, and the first year he wouldn’t come home to the sound of the piano and his brother’s voice happily singing _Sleigh Ride_ and annoying the shit out of him.

The first Christmas morning he wouldn’t hug Auguste.

He held in a breath and walked to the car where Damen was waiting. Inwardly, he counted to twenty. Trying to control his heartbeat, trying to make the memories go away.

The drive to Arles Hall was relatively short, which he appreciated. The more time he spent alone with his thoughts, the worst it was for his psyche. They took a run, hand in hand, to the entrance and slid off their coats. It was crowded, full of well-dressed upper middle class families buying snacks for the children and making line to get a limited edition Nutcracker.

Damen held his hand as they walked through the people. They ended up getting chips, m&m’s, gummy bears, cookies and a bag of salty peanuts. Children looked at them funny – especially at Damen, who was balancing all the candy in his arms the best he could.

Their seats were good, just in the center. From there, he had a perfect view of the orchestra and his heart sped up. It was excitement mixed with nostalgia, as he found he missed playing in an orchestra.

It was very different from playing alone. The sound was richer, as was the sentiment it produced.

“Excited?” Damen asked next to him.

Laurent turned, “I haven’t seen a ballet since I was little.”

“Do you like them?”

“I do,” he smiled, “Before my parents had the accident, we went to see _The Sleeping Beauty_. That one’s also by Tchaikovsky.”

“Is it?” Damen leaned closer and rubbed his neck, “I’ve never even seen this one.”

“What?” Laurent asked, blinking, “Seriously?”

Damen nodded, “My dad…you know he never saw a point in art.”

“I think you will like it,” Laurent said, “If you manage not to fall asleep.”

“Oh, believe me. I didn’t fall asleep during that gala concert; I’m not going to do it here.”

Laurent smirked, “We’ll see.”

Damen looked nice, _truly_ nice. It was the best outfit Laurent had seen him wear that wasn’t for a funeral. It told you that Damen was capable of caring for his appearance when he wanted to. He knew he was blatantly staring, but he couldn’t care less. Damen returned the gaze, his eyes wandering down to Laurent’s lips.

He broke the spell when he said, “I brought something for you.”

“I hope it’s not a cat,” Laurent said.

“It’s not,” Damen grinned, and pulled out a neatly wrapped box. It was dark blue, with a silver bow, and a small toy drum tied to it.

“Do I open it now?” Laurent asked, shaking the box a bit next to his ear.

“Sure. It’s something small, but, I felt like it was appropriate.”

The lights were not yet down, and he supposed they had another five minutes before the presentation began. He took off the bow and unwrapped the box gracefully, a finger sliding under the tape, careful not to rip apart the paper. There was a black box, and inside, wrapped in satin blue paper, was a wooden Nutcracker.

Laurent took it out, laying it down on his palm and stared at it. It was the traditional style in red, but instead of holding a sword, it was holding a violin and a bow. It was lovely. Like a parallel, the past finding its way to the present. Like the music box.

He looked up to see Damen watching him with a smile. He had run out of quick remarks. What was he supposed to say?

Why did he care so much about it?

“Thank you,” He managed.

“I wasn’t sure whether to get it or not…because I didn’t know if you would want it,” Damen said, then. “But it just…reminded me of you when I saw it.”

_Laurent’s small heart grew three sizes that day._

“Thank you,” he said, again, with full meaning, “It’s lovely.” He smiled.

The lights went off, and the curtains opened up. And as the host began to speak, Laurent allowed himself to make the world stop again. He allowed himself to submerge into a fantasy, just for a few minutes. With the difference that, this time, Damen was by his side.

_It is Christmas Eve in a small, snow-covered German village where the Stahlbaum family is having a grand holiday party. Herr Drosselmeyer, an eccentric old toymaker and Stalhbaum family friend, is in his workshop making last minute touch-ups on his gift to young Clara Stalbaum, a beautiful, handcrafted Nutcracker…_

 

***

The dictionary defines the word “excitement” as a feeling of eager enthusiasm and interest. But even so, the very word was not enough to describe the degree of emotion Laurent felt as he watched and heard the National Symphony Orchestra playing the Overture, which by principle, was one of the most known songs of the ballet.

Deep inside his heart, he wondered if he’d felt the same if he wasn’t a musician, specifically a violinist. If he had never played in an orchestra, would he have the same shudders as he listened to _Waltz of the Flowers_ ? If his parents had never taken him to that concert as a child, if he had never heard _Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso_ , would he feel his soul as overjoyed as he felt it while listening to the _Pas de deux_?

Probably not. He realized then, while sitting on the Arles Hall, that his life had so much music in it that if he was to try and separate himself from that world, he’d probably cease to exist. Obviously not in a biological way, but in a spiritual way, in a psychologically and emotionally way, he’d probably stop living.

He was Laurent de Vere, a violinist. He had tried to escape that description; he had tried to be someone else for a long time. And maybe that is why he couldn’t understand himself, anymore. Because he was denying himself all along. Denying the fact that he was a musician, that he loved playing the violin.

That it made him infinitely happy.

Was that what Damen was trying to make him understand since the beginning? And what Auguste felt himself?

Perhaps music was not the invisible monster, perhaps it was something else.

It wasn’t that music hurt him, not at all; it was just that he was a musician. And his pain was music. His sorrow became a melody, it became art. And he couldn’t accept that, he couldn’t make of his grieving a song to entertain others, he just couldn’t.

Auguste was more than a song; he was more than a pianist and music. He was his brother.

So, why couldn’t he hate it all? Why couldn’t he hate music?

Why did it felt so good to play, even when his brother was gone? Why was it that when he grabbed his violin, he felt relief and contentment?

Was it fair to admit it? Would it change something? He didn’t know. But he had to, at least once. Just once. Three words, the most simple of them. Three words that probably held the meaning of his whole existence.

_I love music._

_I love this._

_I love Tchaikovsky._

He felt each of the notes in his pulse, his whole body echoing the melodies. His heart and soul awakening from what seemed to be the longest slumber.

He had never felt more alive.

And he gasped as he realized it, then. Auguste was music. Auguste was this; he was this and _much more_. He was every song, every note, every melody. Every suite, every compilation. Because like music, he broke through your heart and stayed there forever, refusing to let go of you.

He loved you, even if you rejected him. Even if you hurt him.

As the _Pas de deux_ finished, Laurent closed his eyes. He leaned his head over Damen’s shoulder and he waited, patiently, for the final coda.

 

***

“Did you have fun?” Damen asked, as they made their way out of the Hall and towards the car.

Laurent hadn’t recovered from it, in reality. He felt shaken, like he had not felt ever before. Shaken to the very core of his being.

It was winter; Christmas Eve. He had to remind himself that. He felt like he could breathe. Laurent felt like he had been lacking oxygen for a good while now.

When Auguste was sick **,** he felt like if he was trapped somewhere in the middle of the ocean and there was too little air left. And no matter how much he tried, no matter the effort he put in every breath, he could not feel the air. There was no air.

He was choking, slowly gasping, and no one was there to notice.

The only one who could was dying.

The only person who could make Laurent breathe was dying.

At the moment, he thought he would die, too. He would die of despair. But it wasn’t like that. And now, after a long time, he felt like he could breathe again. In and out, slowly, peacefully, and as he stepped outside the building and he looked around at the blue sky and the silhouettes of the skyscrapers, he felt himself smiling.

“I did,” Laurent said, and stopped walking. Damen stopped as well, and Laurent offered his hand. It took Damen a minute to understand what that meant, but eventually, he placed his hand on top of Laurent’s. Laurent inhaled, he breathed, he _lived_ , again. “Thank you for this.”

“Thank you for giving me that chance,” Damen smiled.  

Both of them stared into each other, and then, deliberately, like two Princes sharing a scene, like a final _pas de deux_ , they kissed. A short yet sweet kiss, full of intention and warmth and affect.

Affliction and affection.

It was very strange to feel both at the same time.

But maybe that was the way it had to be. Maybe it was.

 

***

Damen had never been ice skating before, which was obvious. Even though he tried to seem experienced, Laurent could notice from the way he stared at the skates that he was lost like a bird.

It wasn’t that Laurent was experienced, he had only been skating around three times in his entire life, but at least, he remembered how to put on the skates properly.

And it was awkward, yet very funny, the way Damen clung to him for a minute as they entered the rink.

Laurent raised an eyebrow, and tried to suppress his laugh, “Are you okay, Damianos?”

“I’m good.”

“Let go of my arm, then.”

“I will.”

“I’m waiting.”

“In a minute.”

“You know, you’re too much of a giant animal to be clinging at me like that.” Laurent said, and turned to see Damen’s expression. He was frowning at the ice, probably convincing himself that this had been a bad idea.

However, once he got the hold of it, he grabbed both Laurent’s hand and spun around, like children.

It was fun, it was really fun. And for the minutes they were there, just skating around, the memories that came were not painful.

They were filled with joy.

Joy, innocence, and life.

It was his first Christmas without Auguste, and he missed him. But he was not lonely, and he was not sad. He looked up at Damen, and tried to stop the world again. He noticed how warm his hands were, how they both were gripping each other tightly. He noticed the dimples on Damen’s smile, and the way he openly laughed as they let go and went skating in different directions.

His heart fluttered with every single movement, with every teasing look Damen sent him. Laurent wanted to remember all of it, forever. He wanted to save those moments in his heart, and never let them go. If he could stop the world, if he could stop the author from finishing the chapter, or the reader from turning the page. If only he could talk to all of them, ask for another minute, another second.

He wanted more of it.

And the fact that he was allowed that possibility, that it was not a dream, that it didn’t have to end there, that it was real.

_Auguste, I keep talking to you like you could hear me. Maybe, some things I don’t tell you not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know how to. Half of the time I don’t know what to do without you, and the other half I guess I just pretend I do._

_Maybe I can’t speak to you, but I can play._

_I will play for you, Auguste._

Of the new experiences he was having, of the new feelings that squeezed his heart each time Damen kissed him. Of everything he couldn’t say, not now and not ever, because Auguste was dead.

But he would play, he would. And hopefully, music would reach him.

The answer to the question didn’t matter anymore; he couldn’t change the past, and his brother would have still died, but he could change the present, and the future.

Damen swayed him around, and Laurent found himself in his arms. Their breaths were clouds between them, their cheeks were red and they couldn’t look anywhere else that wasn’t each other.

He inhaled, and he blinked. To Damen, he thought, _Thank you. I like you._

_I always have._

_I always will._

 

***

Usually, they spent Christmas alone. Just the two of them, cooking and watching movies and playing board games until it was late and neither of them could get up and go to bed.

But this year was different.

Auguste’s half birthday and half Christmas party was small but cozy and fun. Fun, even though Laurent didn’t speak directly with anyone, and was sitting on the couch with a cup of punch, pulling on the sleeves of his red sweater. Auguste had just invited his closest friends, and Laurent let out a breath of relief and satisfaction as Damen showed up without Jokaste. But even so, he didn’t know how to approach him, or the rest.

He was tense, even if he didn’t mean to.

He was even tenser when Auguste sat down in front of the tree and called everyone for the gifts exchange. Laurent had picked presents for everyone, no exception. But they were just functional, practical. He wasn’t the type of person to give things that would become trash in the future, but rather those that could be useful in their daily lives.

Although, he was afraid they wouldn’t like them.

For Jord, he had bought camera film for his vintage Polaroid. For Nikandros, he had bought a box of gingerbread cookies he kept moaning about at school. Auguste, he had bought him a fountain pen to write his songs like an old composer, and for his second gift, he had bought a forest green sweater.

Now, Damen’s...was the one he was most worried about.

The thing was that Laurent couldn’t find anything good enough to give him. And, in an impulse, he had decided to make him something instead. Suddenly, sitting on the floor, with fruits punch twirling in his stomach, he thought that it had been a terrible idea. He should have just bought him something and dealt with the results. Maybe a candle, or a book, or...chocolates. Or something like that.

_Ugh._

They all sat on the floor, Laurent awkwardly close to Auguste but not close enough to feel embarrassed by it. He left his cup of punch on the coffee table and played with his fringe as Auguste handed the presents over.

He stared at his own, three neatly wrapped, one in a bag. He stared, and he knew he was staring too much. But for a minute there he found himself surprised that they had brought him gifts.

Because, who would think of him? Auguste didn’t count.

Neither of them waited, and just ripped them opened. Jord was the first to thank him with a smile, and of course he had brought his camera along and was going to start taking pictures right there. And of course Nikandros was just going to open the cookies and munch of them in spite of having eaten a huge plate of baked ziti and cake. And, _of course_ , Auguste was pulling him into a brother bear hug, taking the air out of him and leaving him slightly dizzy.

Because they were all like that. And at least, he felt relieved that he knew them well enough not to have fucked up the gifts.

Yet…

His eyes instantly looked for Damen, and found him, at last, opening Laurent’s gift for him. It was a scarf, a knitted muffler scarf that Laurent had spent weeks on making. It was light grey, wrapped in white satin paper.

Damen read the note inside, and then he looked up, meeting Laurent’s eyes. He flushed, but didn’t look away. He waited to see Damen’s reaction; he smiled brightly, and felt the fabric.

“It’s really soft,” Damen said, “Thank you. I really needed one.”

“I noticed,” Laurent said, and regretted it. But it was too late to take it back.

He had noticed, one afternoon after their exams were over and Damen invited him for hot chocolate, because as the wind blew, Damen tried to cover his throat and face with his coat. Immediately, Laurent had thought he was sensible to that chilly wind, and had been about to offer him his own muffler.

But he didn’t.

_Why didn’t I?_

“Mine’s the one with the purple ribbon on it,” Damen said, pointing to the gift closer to Laurent’s knee.

He grabbed it, clearly understanding the indirect, and undid the bow before putting it down and ripping off the paper. Inside a white box, there were a pair of blue, knitted fingerless gloves.

Laurent looked up, and it was Damen’s turn to flush. He felt his own stomach flip, the punch making a glup sound and his heart skipping several beats as Damen spoke.

“For your violinist hands,” he said.

Without noticing, he took his hand to his left ear, pulled on his earlobe softly and touched his piercing.


	22. Black Bile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. Happy Saturday!  
> I'm so, so happy to be updating on my regular schedule again. That writer's block almost killed me, I swear to God.  
> Here's a new chapter for you. I had a blast writing it so I hope you like it as well.  
> A few people have asked me to make a classical music playlist and include all the songs mentioned in Étude. Since I already made a modern songs one, I decided to start working on this one as well. Just so you know.  
> I wanted to thank you all for your lovely comments, messages and kudos. They make my world<33  
> As always, thanks to Ellen, my amazing beta; Étude wouldn't be what it is without you. And Kelly, my partner in crime, because you still deserve a thousand + one hugs. 
> 
> Enjoy!!<3  
> P.S. Black bile: The word "melancholy" derives from Greek μέλαινα χολή (melaina kholé) meaning 'black bile', from the belief that an excess of black bile caused depression.  
> P.S.2. For all of you who don't know, I wrote a 2k word [NYE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9218528) special, in case you want to check it.

He couldn’t remember the beginning.

It was frustrating, like finding a needle in a haystack. It surprised him how a song that he used to hear almost every day was now a blur of mixed notes inside his head. How, after years of not listening, it was slowly leaving him.

Leaving him, like his mother. Like hope, and dreams, and everything that song represented to him.

When your mother leaves you, who do you call for at night?

It’s not the same to see the monster under your bed and having the hope that if you call her, if you call someone, you’ll survive. But when there is no one to call for, when she’s not there anymore, what do you do?

How do you fight, when you’re terrified?

Nicaise was the only one in the room; all the others had left before him. It was a Friday evening, after all. It was most likely they all had better things to do than waste extra time in the music conservatory. Even more when it was summer, the air was hot and humid and the days were meant to be spent outside eating ice cream, after the sun had set and the city was cooling down. But he didn’t have anything else to do, and he was avoiding going home.

The sunset light was coming in through the paneled windows on the wall, a mix of orange, red, pink and yellow. He liked that the sunset was never the same, he liked that the colours changed and the clouds too. It reminded him that life was never the same, that nothing lasted forever. Not the good things, nor the bad things.

Everything had an end. The days, the sunlight, the suffering that now seems perpetual.

The bruises.

The nightmares.

Cigarettes.

Three, was the number of cigarette burns he had in his arm right now. The new ones, at least. They hurt when he lifted up his violin and rested it on his shoulder, but he ignored them. He was good at disconnecting himself from the physical pain, as he now had years of enough practice to perform it perfectly.

And the violin helped. It always helped.  It was his only friend, and he was fine with it.

_ “It’s a violin, Nicaise. Isn’t it pretty? If you’re good, it will play music for you.” _

He didn’t mind the pain; it was something he had learn to live with. As long as he could play, he was fine with it. More than once, he had opened up his fingers and bled all over his instrument during a lesson while his classmates watched with horrified faces.

They couldn’t understand how he could still be playing with his hands like that, how could they? They didn’t have cigarette burns under their shirts.

_ “Like a funeral needs an audience and like a skeptic needs a church, it's not fun unless it hurts.” _

Violins are often seen as the arrogant instruments of the classical world. They’re petulant, exclusive, narcissistic. At first, it is your enemy.

Violinists are not violinists because they choose to be, but because they are chosen. It’s not enough to just want to play the violin, you ought to have the stability and fine control it takes to draw the bow across the strings and produce a beautiful, uniform, sustained sound.

It was easy to mess up; it was easier to lose control. It is a lie, a huge lie, to say that the violin is an arrogant instrument. Quite the opposite, the violin gives everything for the musician. It’s loyal. Once it chooses you, it becomes your partner, your friend, for life.

There’s not a day you can go without playing, not a day you don’t wish to do so. It’s an instrument, and yet it can mean more than a person.

Nicaise was eight years old when he found his mother’s violin abandoned in his apartment. Getting lessons was out of the question, so he learnt to play by ear, all by himself. He couldn’t read music sheets because of this, which was one of the reasons why he decided to take classes with Auguste de Vere.

The other reason was, of course, because Auguste was the brother of Laurent de Vere, the violinist. A truth that had two sides.

When Nicaise found out he was a violinist by nature, he went to every free entry gala concert in the Arles Hall. He was too young, so he learnt the route with a map and took quarters of his piggy bank to take the bus nearest to the auditorium.

He didn’t know about classical music, he didn’t know any of the things he knew now, but he knew he wanted to be like the fifteen years old blonde boy that had played first violin in an orchestra and had changed the sound completely.

He learnt, years after, that the song was  _ Waltz No. 2 _ , written by Dmitri Shostakovich, and interpreted by Charcy’s Juvenile Orchestra, a famous music school in town. The name of the violinist was Laurent de Vere.

He wanted to play like that. He wanted to change the sound of a whole orchestra, of a whole song. To snatch away the piece from the composer and make it his own.

_ How do you pour your soul into music? _

Who was that boy? The one that could play any song and make it sound like a masterpiece. The one that Nicaise both admired and envied. The one Nicaise grew up watching on stage.

He wanted to know him.

He wanted to meet him, and see, if what his violin told was true.

So, he practiced. Day and night, he practiced, even with the bruises and burns and the threats and yells. He practiced, because if he wanted to meet that guy, he had to be on his same level. He had to be able to face him like an equal, to make him listen to his music, too.

_ This is me. _

_ I’m a violinist, like you. _

Taking a breath, he strummed the first chord gently, it didn’t sound quite right, but he continued. It was hard, trying to get the notes out of a far-away memory, a scratch of what had been once his life.

Laurent didn’t give lessons, so perhaps this was the closest Nicaise could get to him.

For now, at least.

He wondered, suddenly, what made Laurent quit competitions.

Didn’t he want to be on stage forever? Nicaise did.

“Take me away,” He whispered, to his violin, “Far away.”

When he played, he was no longer there. He was no longer Nicaise. During those minutes, he was every other part of him that wasn’t corrupted. The violin took away his pain, his fears, his worries; it healed the burns and bandaged the bruising.

It took him away, to a place where he was free.

And all the sacrifice, all the beatings, and the money he stole to pay the classes along with the consequences that brought him, they were worth it.

For a few minutes, he was able to be the musician he was born to be. His music was the most important, it didn’t have to be perfect, but it was his. His, and no one could take that away from him.

And that was enough, to keep going.

“Oh – You’re still here, Nicaise,” a voice said behind him. He turned around, violin and bow in hands, to face a smiling Auguste. “I thought everyone was gone, and I was going to close up the room.” He said, shaking a set of keys in the air.

“I thought I could use this room for a while,” Nicaise said, “since the place is empty, anyways.”

“You certainly can,” Auguste said, walking towards him, “What were you playing?”

With a shrug, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? How curious.”

“Curious?” Nicaise asked.

Auguste chuckled at his confused face, “I’m intrigued.”

“I heard it a long time ago, but I can’t remember the notes,” Nicaise explained, “I don’t know the title, either.”

“Oh! A mystery, then. I love mysteries.” Auguste said, leaving the keys on the desk and moving to sit at the white marbled piano they used for lessons. “I’ll help you.”

He looked at him for a minute, not knowing what to do, and then Auguste nodded in approval, urging him to play. Nicaise did, he closed his eyes and tried to go back to that epoch.

How was his mom? He didn’t remember her face, anymore. And his dad had thrown away all of her pictures. He remembered her back, and her long, brown curls that reached her waist, and the bright yellow ribbon she liked to wear. He remembered the violin on her shoulder, how she danced around when playing, how happy she was.

Or at least, she seemed to be.

He hadn’t known his mom enough time to miss her as much, but somehow, he wanted to remember the song she used to play. Not knowing the reason, though. Perhaps, he just needed it. He had tried many times to search for it online, but he couldn’t. He knew nothing about it that was useful, and he couldn’t read music sheets either.

“Nicaise,” Auguste said, and then bit his lips, like trying to find the words. He stopped playing, and put the bow down, “Why don’t you play with the heart? Instead of the mind. After all, the heart remembers what the mind has forgotten.”

“How do I do that?”

“Stop thinking about the chords, just feel them.”

_ Just feel them. _

_ How do you pour your soul into music? _

Nicaise nodded, although he had no clue what he was doing, and tried again. He watched Auguste close his eyes and listen to every single chord, then trying to find them on the piano by ear.

Playing like he knew how the song continued, like time hadn’t passed, and his mom was there in front of him, swaying around.

After a while, Auguste snapped his eyes open, “I got it.” Then, turning to look at Nicaise, “It’s an old one, ‘ _ Song from a Secret Garden _ .’ It’s not very common to hear nowadays.”

Nicaise whispered, “That makes sense.”

“What does?”

“Why I couldn’t find it.”

Auguste smiled, it was kind of a sad smile. Not of pity, rather of nostalgia. But he couldn’t understand why. “Do you want to play? I’ll lead, and you can follow.”

 

 

***

When he first met Nicaise, he was impressed.

Stubborn and determined, with a rich sound and fierce eyes. From all his students, Nicaise was probably the best one. It wasn’t that Auguste had any favoritism, that was not the case, but rather that he felt certain curiosity towards the teenager. His sound wasn’t the kind you’d expect from someone so young, especially when he had never been instructed in the violin before.

And it wasn’t only the fact that Nicaise had, obviously, a natural talent but also that the sentiment connected to his music was profound. Like a deep wound in the soul that never properly healed.

Maybe that wound was the one to give him his talent, to make him the violinist he was. Nicaise couldn’t read music scores, but he could learn a song by ear almost perfectly. He couldn’t make sense of musical terms in Italian or French, but he knew the changes in tempo and rhythm by heart.

He was a musician, heart and soul. Born to be, interrupted – maybe. And yet, the violin had found him. It had taken possession over him, now there was no going back.

Only onwards.

God knew what wonders could be done if Laurent tutored that boy. Of course, his brother would refuse. He was not going to even try to persuade him. 

But.

Perhaps when he was more mature, more...adult. When his battle with music was over and the waters were calm, Laurent could understand and find satisfaction in teaching, too. He was good with children, even if he denied it. Auguste couldn’t see him with a group of kids, but he could see him with one. The one that managed to shake Laurent’s bases. A child of his equal musical level, with exorbitant talent like his own. 

Laurent could multiply that talent, exponentiate his sound. They would grow up together. 

Auguste couldn’t wait for that. 

It was fascinating to see the progress. That was the part Auguste loved more about teaching, to see his students grow up through music. Physically, emotionally, musically. It was beautiful, like it had been seeing his own little brother become the violinist he was now. And it made him feel proud, and important. He thought that perhaps, he could be both. Composer and teacher.

He had thought about it for a while, utterly deciding that he didn’t want to pursue a concertist career. Playing on a stage was fun, but teaching was revitalizing. Composing was his dream.

Auguste wanted to make music, and share it with others. He wasn’t born to repeat the same old stories over and over, but to create new ones, for the people that needed them.

For the the lost, the hurt and the forgotten. The disappointed ones. Music brought them all hope. He couldn’t reach them all with words, but music could. Music had no barriers.

Auguste played. The song he knew since he was a child, because he loved Secret Garden. It was the perfect balance between the modern and classic, the bridge to the present to the past. The song was filled with melancholy, and as Nicaise followed with the violin, the air in the room changed.

He was changing the sound, and Auguste let him. The image Nicaise was painting for him was different, too different from what he expected. Like the lost, unheard cry of a child, the calling of someone that was not there.

The slow, torturing, gut-wrenching process of losing hope.

Nicaise was hurting, and no one was listening.

As the sunset light stood on Nicaise’s face, Auguste was able to see the shining of his tears, inevitably falling down, rolling down his face onto his chain and his violin. But he couldn’t stop playing the piano, and Nicaise wouldn’t put down the violin.

Because they were musicians, and pain was wordless.

 

 

***

It was about two in the morning. Laurent felt lost as he woke up, still too submerged into his dream to be aware of the dark reality around him. As his eyes adjusted to the black pitch room, though, he remembered where he was and who he was with, a series of words flashing through his mind at incredible speed.

He was home, in his bedroom, with Damen’s face on his neck like a small kid. He looked so at ease that Laurent couldn’t help but smile to himself.

How they had ended up in that situation was still unsure, how they had gone from making Damen sleep on the couch to let him in Laurent’s bed. It was impossible for his brain to recall how many times they’ve slept together like that just for the sake of it, seeking warmth into the other and cuddling like…a couple.

_ A couple. _

Were they a couple?

Laurent wasn’t going to deny that he liked it, though. He liked having Damen on the bed next to him. It was comforting, in a way. Damen’s presence had become a tiny nightlight into the abyss of his grief.

At first, Laurent had rejected him. Because his return meant re-opening the door to feelings he had left unidentified and unsolved. It meant dealing with the pain he had managed to avoid for four years, facing the consequences of his multiple mistakes. It was opening a door to the second person he cared about most in the world after Auguste, to his brother’s best friend, the guy that had stood up next to Auguste, both in their graduations robes, while Laurent took the picture. It was trying to accept the fact that this man was alive, and his life kept going, and was here when Auguste wasn’t.

It was too much.

Looking at the face at the boy you once liked, at the one that told you you could be like an endless blue sky, and know that whatever had happened between you was dead, buried. That the only connection was now gone. But…he was still there. They were still there, with an empty space between them, air tense and unfriendly faces. It hurt.

When Laurent had walked away from Damen that day in July, he had not allowed himself to feel heartbroken. He remembered, walking away as fast as he could across the courtyard, to an empty area where the tree they always had lunch under was at. The tree that had dropped its leaves on them, and that hid them under its shadow on the hot days where they lay down and held hands as they talked about poetry. The firsts and lasts, because they’d never be back, like the swallows from Bécquer’s poem.  Laurent walked behind it, and felt his chest heaving. It hurt, like someone was beating him up on the inside. He rested his back against it, laying his head back as he felt himself losing control. His lips twitched and he closed his eyes, taking a hand to cover his mouth as he cried, long, ugly, silent sobs.

But only one tear.

_ One. You will only cry one. _

The single most painful tear, burning his skin like fire as it rolled down and landed on his mouth, tasting like acid on his lips. All of what Damen had been to him compressed in a single tear that he swallowed down. A heartbreak that never truly happened, because he never allowed himself to.

When he saw Damen at Auguste’s funeral was as if though, his heart, already broken, had remembered there were sentiments it had never recovered from. There were still tears he had not cried, a heartbreak that had been delayed. And they were suddenly stumbling upon him, reclaiming attention.  

Loving someone was painful, and yet, it could be so beautiful. Heartbreaks, Laurent learnt, were unavoidable. Nor they were a one-time thing only. And they didn’t disable you from loving. Sometimes, even, heartbreaks were involuntary.

And sometimes, the person that once broke your heart, could mend it again. With enough patience, that is. Because the pieces took long to find, and they were hard to put back together, like a puzzle.

He had fallen in love with Damen in a strange way. It hadn’t been fast, but it hadn’t been slow. It was sudden. Like a bullet. Like a fall, a kick, a drop. When he realized what had happened, it was too late to change facts.

And now that they were together again, he realized that the story had repeated itself. He wasn’t sure how, he didn’t notice.  His defense mechanism had failed once more.

It seemed that with every truth Laurent gave to Damen, he got more puzzle pieces together. And Laurent, who never expected to find himself doing the same thing, suddenly was handed Damen’s pieces.

Perhaps the best way to put back everything as it used to be was together. To remake the picture, without Auguste, and make the pieces fit some other way.

It would certainly take a while, but for the time being, Laurent was content to having Damen’s slow breath tickling on his skin, and his hand wrapped around Laurent’s small back as he slept. He wondered what he was dreaming about. Maybe something nice, like the ocean in Ios.

Maybe elephants.

He realized he had started to pet Damen’s head unconsciously when Damen stirred, and moved his legs under the blanket. He sucked in a breath, and opened his eyes just slightly.

“Laurent?”

“Yes?” Laurent whispered.                                                                                            

Damen pulled away from Laurent’s chest a little to see him better, “Are you okay? Did you have a nightmare again?”

“I’m okay,” Laurent reassured him, “I’m just going to get a glass of water.” And then, “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” Damen said, but he sounded confused and sleepy, “Are—You sure?”

Laurent chuckled under his breath, “Sure. Sleep, Damen.”

And then, as he resumed his sleep, Laurent got up from bed.

 

 

***

Walking downstairs to the living room felt more like stepping out to a different reality. He noticed Nicaise, sitting like a shadow next to the sliding doors that led to the backyard.

Laurent approached him carefully, until he was standing in front of him. The scenery brought him flashbacks; the darkness, the silence and the moonlight, washing over Nicaise’s face. The feeling of a person slowly decaying, drifting away in soul.

“Can’t sleep because you’re lonely?” Laurent asked.

Nicaise shrugged. He was sitting with his back to the wall, and his head leaned on the window, legs extended over the carpet.

“I’m cold,” Nicaise said.

Laurent was about to reply when he noticed Nicaise was actually shivering, teeth chattering and his body convulsing in spasms he tried hard to suppress but that Laurent knew all too well. Shivering, from being cold, lonely, sad, exhausted, angry, and a little bit sick.

That was grief.

That was pain, raw and visceral.

“Can I check if you have a fever?” Nicaise nodded, allowing Laurent to touch his forehead and neck. He was frozen.

What was he supposed to— _ oh, for fuck’s sake. _

He moved, fast, to the storage closet he kept the towels at and took out a blanket. It was one of those Laurent took to the hospital for Auguste. His brother liked them because they were soft and somehow in his feverish deliriums, he said how much they reminded him of their mother. It had flower patterns and birds flying out of cages.

He threw it around Nicaise’s shoulders, “Do you like hot chocolate?”  Nicaise nodded again, and wrapped the blanket around him.

It felt odd. To see Nicaise so vulnerable and acting like the age he was. Sometimes, Laurent forgot he was only fourteen. Usually, he was very mature. He was clever and direct and honest. Demanding. Stubborn as hell. But now, sitting next to the window, listening to music with a blanket on his back, he looked rather innocent.

And lonely.

Laurent went to the kitchen and drank a glass of cold water before heating up milk for the hot chocolate. Flashbacks of the nightmare went through his mind as he poured the mix on the cup and he fought against them and the nausea rising in his throat. He could see them, Nicaise’s blue eyes staring at him from the pond, asking a silent question.

_ Why? _

When he walked back to the living room, Nicaise hadn’t moved. Laurent handed him the mug and sat in front of him, legs crossed. He didn’t know what to say, so he opted for not saying anything at all. He knew very well Nicaise wasn’t going to answer his questions, and wouldn’t appreciate pity words in the slightest either.

And yet, Laurent didn’t want to leave him alone for some reason he didn’t feel like dwelling in now.

_ He’s just a kid. _

Laurent watched Nicaise quietly as he crawled on the floor with the blanket and sat next to him. Silently, he offered Laurent one of his earbuds and Laurent took it.

The song was acoustic, soft and low, similar to a lullaby. He recognized it immediately.

_ I wish you'd walk in again _

_ Imagine if you just did _

“Do you like this?” Nicaise whispered.

_ I'd fill you in on the things you missed _

“I do.”

_ Oh sleepless night, a grown up man dressed in white _

_ who I thought might just save your life _

“They’re good.”

_ But he couldn't, so you died _

“Yes, they are.”

“Do you listen to other things that aren’t classical?”

“Sometimes.”

Then, Nicaise said, “My mom is dead.”

Laurent turned to see him, “I’m sorry.”

“She was a violinist. She died in a car crash when I was six.”

Laurent didn’t reply.

“She had a fight with my dad, so she left in the car, and she died.”

“My parents,” Laurent whispered, he wasn’t sure why, “They died in a car accident too.”

“How it’d happen?” Nicaise asked.

“A truck driver,” He said, and turned his head towards the window, “fell asleep.”

He barely noticed when Nicaise put half of the blanket around his shoulders, in a strange act of comforting, “I’m sorry.” Then, after a pause, “Will we be alright?”

He had asked Auguste that question once. When they were children, after their parent’s funeral. This time, however, he couldn’t pretend to be like his brother. He couldn’t bring himself to even try and lie when he knew neither himself nor Nicaise would appreciate it. They had been hurt enough times, already. 

No need for self-flagellation. 

Laurent laid his head back against the wall, he said, with all honesty, “I don’t know.”

After that, neither of them said anything. They just listened to the song, and their breathings echoing in the empty living room.  It was a while before Nicaise spoke again, and the song was looping.

“He got me into Charcy,” Nicaise whispered, “I didn’t have the money, so he helped me get a scholarship.”

When Laurent didn’t respond, Nicaise spoke again, pressing his forehead against the glass, “It’s funny,” he said, in a low voice. A sad voice Laurent had never heard from him before, “You two…at first, you seem very different. But you’re like Auguste,” then, “He told me the same thing.  _ ‘I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.’ _ ”

Laurent stopped. He stopped. His mind, and his worries, and his theories. For a second, he let himself stop. He was being given a choice. Another of many. But this time, he couldn’t risk screwing up. So, he took a breath. Counted the seconds.

_ Auguste, help me with this one. _

He asked, “Who’s hurting you, Nicaise?”

Nicaise’s voice was hoarse when he finally answered, “My father.”    


 

 

***

“You look tired,” Damen said, frowning in concern. Laurent couldn’t help but think he was acting like an upset mother. Frying bacon in a green apron and staring at him with worried eyes.

“I am tired,” Laurent said, taking his fingers to his forehead and rubbing his temples in a weak attempt of dissipating the headache he had awoken to at eight in the morning.

“Did you have nightmares?” Damen asked, turning around to break the eggs on the pan.

“No, I—“Laurent started, and felt another sharp pain exploding on the left side of his head, “I talked to Nicaise last night. He was out of his bed, he couldn’t sleep. I sat with him for a while.”

“What happened?”

“It’s his father,” said Laurent, and he watched every muscle on Damen’s body tense up in response. “The one abusing him.”

“Jesus Christ,” Damen whispered, passing a hand over his face, “Did he tell you?”

“Who else?”

“Care to explain?”

Laurent took a breath, and tried to work out whether his brain would explode right there. When he figured it was probably not going to be that day, he told Damen how Nicaise had broken down after saying it. How he had found something he shouldn’t, and his life had changed forever. How he believed, from a very young age, that his father killed his mother indirectly. Because she was cheating on him, and he had alcohol problems, and after her death, the only victim left was Nicaise.

An innocent boy who lost both mother and father on the same day, and now lived with someone he couldn’t even recognize. Like a demon, a beast.

Nicaise told Laurent how he had stolen the money from his father to pay Auguste’s classes, and how his father had made him pay for that, pressing a burning spoon to his thighs until he was satisfied with the result.

_ “To teach me a lesson.” _

_ “To make me respect him.” _

_ “He was being disobedient, so I taught him some manners.” _

The more Nicaise talked, the more he spilled out all those toxic memories, like the black bile from Ancient Greek, the more Laurent remembered his uncle. And that scared him a lot.

He’d never know how to deal with his uncle, not as a child and certainly not now, not without Auguste. Every time he looked at the man’s face, he could only remember the darkness of that room he liked to lock him in. He’d let him there for hours, without food or water, and then, after hours of torture, if he decided to let him out, he’d start the emotional manipulation. He’d embrace him, even if Laurent recoiled, speak in a soft voice that made him nauseous. 

_ “I hate having to do these things to you, nephew.” _

_ “If you were a good boy…” _

“He said,” Laurent continued, “that Auguste helped him get into Charcy.”

Damen asked, “Do you think Auguste knew?” 

“I think he did, yes.” Laurent opened his voice to say something else, but then decided not to. 

It was possible that Auguste couldn’t help him more, because he was sick. 

Why hadn’t he told him, though? 

_ Why didn’t you talk to me?  _

The thought made him sad. Auguste had left too many things unsaid, and he couldn’t understand why. Maybe Laurent was a terrible brother, after all. 

“What is it?” Damen asked. 

“What?”

“You’re making a face.”

“My head hurts,” Laurent whispered, “Can you get me an aspirin?”

Damen put one in front of him along with a glass of water and then a plate of eggs and bacon, “Eat something too, or it’ll hurt your stomach.”

Laurent swallowed down the pill, and then added, with curiousity, “Your reaction isn’t what I expected.”

“I’m trying to think,” Damen said. 

“And can you do that?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I actually am, very impressed.”

“Fuck,” Damen said, over and over again. “Fuck.” Laurent jumped at the sound of his fist punching the wall. His head was killing him. “That fucking bastard. What are we gonna do? We can’t let Nicaise go back there.”

_ We.  _

“I know that,” Laurent said, “We won’t.”

“This is a good moment for your evil scheming brain to plan something.”

“Damen…”

“Son of a bitch, how dare him do that to his own son? We need to call the police.”

“Do that, and they’ll take Nicaise away. He has no one else, who’s going to take care of him? He’ll go to social services, and he won’t be able to go Charcy anymore.”

Damen looked at him; Laurent had never seen him so mad in his life, “But we can’t let him keep torturing him!”

His ears rang for a minute, but he forced himself to raise up his voice, “It’s not easy to be alone, Damen.” Damen opened his mouth but closed it again and frowned. “I don’t know how to fight this,” Laurent said. His mouth was dry. “I didn’t know before, and I don’t know now. I won’t let Nicaise go back to his father, but I don’t want him to be alone, either.”

“Before?” Damen asked, “What do you mean with ‘before’?”

Staring into his eyes, Laurent realized he didn’t have the strength to contain this secret anymore. Damen was untangling his web of lies, something he thought would never be possible. 

Damen had asked for a chance, and Laurent had let him in, not expecting anything. 

_ “I knew your heart once.” _

What would he do now? 

If he backed away from this now, the hurt one would be Damen. And if he gave in to the truth, he would be the one to be hurt. 

_ You can take it.  _

_ Laurent, tell him.  _

Their conversation was interrupted by a voice, “I don’t need your help.”

Nicaise was standing by the door. He was wearing the same grey hoodie as the day Laurent found him sitting on the hood of his car. He didn’t look as exhausted anymore. Walking towards them, he said, “I don’t  _ want _ your help.”

Protesting, Damen said, “No. Nicaise, this isn’t right. It’s dangerous for you to stay there.”

“Nicaise — ” Laurent started, but was interrupted again. 

“If you want to help me so badly, then make me win the Royal. That is why I’m here.” Nicaise snapped, “I don’t need your cheap displays of affection or sentimentalism, you can keep that for yourselves.”

_ He’s scared.  _

But Laurent couldn’t go after him. He watched him storm out the kitchen in a rage, and he heard Damen’s voice calling him, but he couldn’t move. 

_ He’s scared, _ his mind said.  _ Just like you are.  _

 

 

***

Jord’s exhibition was called  _ “Harmonia.” _

After Aimeric’s death, Jord left the chorus at Charcy. He continued being a music student, but he joined the photography club instead. He was sure that, given the circumstances, the teachers would have allowed him to ask change for the regular program if he had asked, but he didn’t. 

Laurent knew, back then and now, that he probably didn’t for the same reason he left the chorus; Aimeric. It was oxymoron, but it made sense. Jord could give up singing, but he couldn’t give music up entirely. Not when Aimeric was a devoted musician. In that aspect, Jord was similar to Damen. With all the explanation about sentimental values and forgetting. 

They couldn’t do what Laurent had; cutting off every string that tied him to the music world. Like grabbing scissors, and chopping them all off, dismantling a violin. 

Leaving him useless. 

So, it made sense that even Jord’s pictures had to do with music, somehow. The titles were musical terms in Italian, and most of them were in monochrome or faded colors, resembling old, worn-out polaroids. 

The gallery was crowded, even for a small exhibition. He knew, however, that it was a huge thing for Jord. Not many students had that chance. 

Damen held his hand as they walked together, “Where’s Nicaise?” he asked, looking around. 

“He went off to find the food table.” Laurent said, and stopped in front of a photograph. 

They needed a distraction. The three of them. 

It was rather impossible to focus and find a solution when the air was tense as if the three of them would combust at any minute. Even Vivi, who somehow managed to solve any conflicts between him and Damen, had ran off and was currently hiding under Laurent’s desk in his bedroom, licking his paws and ignoring them all. 

Laurent couldn’t blame him, though. 

They had spent the whole saturday without talking to each other. But Laurent found ironic how it was his house and neither Damen nor Nicaise seemed to want to leave, even if they were fighting. 

Just like children. 

Jord’s exhibition had been  _ that _ distraction. 

Damen didn’t want to leave Nicaise out of sight, however, so they brought him along with the promise of food. 

“Was I ever that infuriating as a teenager?” Laurent asked.

“No,” Damen said, “You were worse.”

Laurent pinched his arm, hard. As Damen rubbed the spot, Laurent focused on the photograph. 

It was of Nikandros, that was undeniable. He was shirtless, leaning on the veranda of the balcony at his apartment, with his back to the camera. His silhouette was dark, like a shadow against the light coming in from the windows. 

“He is a great photographer,” Damen whispered. 

“And a great lover, too.” 

Nikandros grinned at Damen and swinged back his flute of champagne. 

Damen groaned, “I don’t need any more information, thank you.”

“It’s called revenge,” Nikandros said, and then focused his eyes on Laurent. “So, you did come.”

This was new. For years, Nikandros had ignored his existence completely. Usually, he’d act civilized while they were in the same room, but it didn’t happen often, as the group had dissolved after graduation. 

Or was it better to say that, the group continued without him? 

Auguste kept in touch with all of his high school friends, especially Damen, Nikandros and Jord, who was in Laurent’s class. After they graduated, the only one who cut off communication with them was Laurent. 

They kept going without him, just as he wanted. 

So why did it sting a little? 

Why was it that he felt nostalgic? 

They hadn’t been close friends. It didn’t even last that much. He only tagged along because of his brother. 

But it hurt. 

His chest hurt. 

“Yes.” 

In Nikandros’ eyes, Laurent couldn’t find any of his usual indifference. For a minute, though, as he spoke, he imagined him spurting out red flowers. 

Suddenly, everyone in the gallery were spurting out red flowers. 

_ No, focus.  _

_ That isn’t real.  _

“This is important for him,” said Nikandros, holding his gaze, “Don’t ruin it. Or I swear to God — ”

“Nik…” Damen threatened. 

“I will punch you this time.” Nikandros finished, although it was clear it wasn’t what he had wanted to say. 

“Where’s Jord?” Laurent asked, looking around. 

“I swear to God, Laurent, if you do anything — ”

“Nikandros.”

“It’s fine, Damen.” Laurent said.

“Laurent,” said a voice behind them. Nikandros’ expression changed, and he turned around to see Jord, standing in front of him. His grey eyes were shining. “You came.” 

Laurent said, “You invited me:”

“I thought you wouldn’t.” Jord admitted. 

“That makes two of us.” 

“Thanks for coming, Damen.” Jord said and smiled.

Damen smiled as well, “No problem. Your work is fantastic.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh so you believe Damen when he says it but not me?” Nikandros asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“The fact that you sleep with him makes your criteria subjective,” Laurent replied.

Nikandros glared, “Who asked you?”

“Come on, Nik, let’s go find Nicaise.” Damen said, tugging on his arm to drag him away. 

“Jord?” 

Jord gave him a reassuring nod, “It’s fine, go. I want to talk to Laurent,” he said. 

Finally, Nikandros gave in, “Who the fuck is Nicaise?”

“My adoptive son. Come on,” Damen said, and they both walked away. 

“Thanks for coming,” Jord said, once they were alone. 

Jord hasn’t changed much since high school. His factions were those of an adult now, but you could still see remnants of his teenage face. He wasn’t precisely attractive, rather charming, but what brought attention to his face, were his eyes. 

It had always seemed to Laurent that Jord’s eyes were honest, open, pure, in spite of the odd colour they had. Grey, it called for mystery, for curiosity. It was a blending of the two most opposite colours in the scheme. 

And yet, you could always know what Jord was thinking just by looking him in the eye.

“I like them,” Laurent said, “Your photos.”

“Thanks,” Jord smiled. “How are you doing? I mean…”

“I’m...fine, I suppose.” 

What was that even  _ supposed _ to mean? 

Before he could say anything else, though, Jord said, “Actually...I’d like to show you something.”

Laurent nodded and followed Jord through the crowd, walking to the other side of the room. On a single white wall, there were three photographs. All of them in monochrome. The first one to the left was Auguste’s piano, most likely taken the day Laurent had asked Jord for his help. It looked dusty and old, like a passage from another reality. Another world where time had stop in that precise moment, frozen forever in a picture. 

Suddenly, his heartbeat sped up. 

The second picture, the one in the middle, was of Victoria and Auguste, caught mid-laughing, under the rain. They were holding hands, both of them wearing their rings. The title was  _ ‘Vivace’. _

His own world stopped. He could hear them, their voices, their laughs, the splashing of the rain. The city alive around them. 

He had forgotten that his brother once was so happy. 

He was so happy. 

He had forgotten that Auguste used to laugh. And how contagious was that laugh. 

And Victoria wore her hair long, and put glitter on her eyelids and was loud and explosive and happy. 

She was so happy.

How could the world be so beautiful and yet so cruel at the same time? 

He breathed, and moved his eyes to the third picture, the last one on the right. His stomach dropped, awfully, painfully. 

A stab. 

A stab, with a bow. 

It was Aimeric. 

Aimeric, dressed in normal clothes, smiling. A shy smirk.  Laurent had never seen him out of his Charcy uniform, nor smiling. It was titled,  _ ‘Con anima. _ ’ 

He looked so young. A little older than Nicaise, but not that much. He had died _ so _ young.

For some unexplainable reason, he had thought that his ghosts grew up with him, when in reality, he was the only one leaving them behind. Aimeric would remain fifteen forever, and Laurent was about to turn twenty-one next May. 

Aimeric, the son of an abusive father and an ignorant mother. The second violinist that tried to steal his solo in high school.

The one that killed himself.

He realized then, in the art Gallery, staring at his picture, that he hadn’t stopped to think about Aimeric’s death as an adult. After it happened, he had shoved those memories in a trunk and locked it with key, expecting to never see them again. And yet, here he was, staring at him in black and white. That nosy boy that once had been his rival was no more than a picture now. 

He was stuck in that moment, in that world, in those seconds forever. 

That was death. 

And, the only thing he could think of was Nicaise. 

_ Nicaise.  _

“We never stop loving them, you know,” Jord whispered by his side, “We learn to live with that kind of pain, but the love doesn’t fade away. Even if we find people that love us as much, or even more.”

After a few seconds, Laurent said, “Thank you,” and then, “For bringing him flowers.”

Jord smiled, “This was the picture they were going to add to their wedding invitation. They asked me to take it that day, but it was raining.”

“And they didn’t give a fuck.”

“Yeah,” Jord chuckled, “Pretty much what happened.”

“You should give that to Victoria.”

“I will.”

“And,” This was the main reason why he’d come. Because it was his last chance. This time, he could make things right. “Coffee. Monday, if you’re off.”

Jord’s expression changed. He looked stunned, but happy. “Sure.” and then, with some curiosity, he added, “By the way, who is Nicaise?”

“That’s what the coffee is for,” Laurent said. 

 

 

***

“Maybe,” Damen said, “We should call it a night.”

“Are you tired?” Laurent asked.

“No, you are.”

“I’m not,” Laurent replied.

“I can see it in your eyes, half battery.”

Laurent couldn’t help but snort, “You’re ridiculous.”

Damen smiled, it was the smile Laurent liked the best; the happiest one, with teeth and dimples. The one that Damen had been given him since high school. 

“You are a jealous person,” Laurent said. 

“Am I?”

Laurent said, in a teasing voice, “Remember Torveld?”

Damen scoffed, “That one was your fault.”

“My fault? How was it my fault?”

“You went out with him!”

_ I wanted to make you jealous.  _

“I wanted to go to that concert for free,” Laurent lied. 

“Why are we talking about this now?” Damen asked, clearly annoyed.

Laurent shrugged, “I just remembered.”

It was late. He didn’t know the time, but he guessed it was a little past one in the morning. They had stayed up talking, because that’s what they did: talk. It was often when they got so caught up in their conversations that they forgot about the time. They could go on and on until dawn, and even when most of the time they fell asleep before that, just the possibility of being able to do so made Laurent really happy. 

He liked having someone to talk to.

He was used to talking to Auguste all the time. But at some point, when his brother was reclusive in the hospital, he started to feel really lonely. 

He had no one else of his entire trust that he could go to, just to talk. 

And Damen knew a bit of everything. He could talk to you about cooking, or woodwork, or just tell you stories. Laurent liked to listen to him, not only because it was interesting, but also because of his diction. 

He talked like a King. Like, an old monarch from those fantasy books Laurent liked to read. 

When he was fifteen, he used to think that Damen belonged to another life. That he was a character from a book. And it was so hard for him to think that someone could happen between them when Laurent wasn’t in his story. 

And now, after everything that happened, they were here. In Laurent’s house, in his bedroom, talking. Damen, tracing his fingers on the palm of his hand, kissing him softly, slowly. 

Like a lover.

Laurent closed his eyes as Damen kissed him. He had been wondering for a while now how it would be, Damen’s touching his body and Laurent responding to it. How would it feel to have that? 

“Are you going to sleep?” Damen whispered. 

He shook his head, “Not yet.”

Damen grinned, “Can I keep kissing you then?”

“No.”

Looking confused, Damen pulled away, “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Laurent said, “You didn’t.” 

He wondered if Damen liked it, when they kissed. Laurent’s few kisses were all Damen’s. He had never felt anything else for another person. On the contrary, though, Damen had had lovers before. Could he notice, though, that Laurent’s lips had only ever touched his? 

Could he feel it, when Laurent grabbed his face softly in his hands and kissed him chastely? 

How was it, to have a lover?

To have Damen completely?

He wanted to know, experience it for himself. There was no one else in the entire planet Laurent would want to lay with. 

He wanted to, at least once. 

Laurent kissed him again, this time with more intention, deepening the sweetness from their previous pecks. Kissing, to him, was more like a dance. Their tongues intermingling together as they embraced each other. 

_ Closer, always closer.  _

They just wanted to be closer. It wasn’t messy or harsh, it was...meaningful, and passionate, and it made him warm all over. 

It was overwhelming, to feel so much at once. To want so much at once but not being able to fulfill it. 

He pulled away, tasting Damen on his lips,  _ feeling _ him still there. The realization made him shudder.

What if he was giving away too much? 

What if it wasn’t enough?

What if he was disappointed by it -- what if they both were?

Another chance, another risk. If he miscalculated again, then what? 

“Lo?” He felt Damen’s breath on him, warm as he said his name. He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. 

It was getting longer, his hair. He had to cut it...he...

“I—”

He didn’t know what to say, his mind left him. 

Damen took both of his hands in his and kissed them tenderly, “We don’t have to do this tonight.”

“Damen…” Laurent whispered, “I want to.”

“It doesn’t have to be rushed you know,” Damen said, “It’s supposed to be beautiful.”

“Beautiful.”

Could it be beautiful?

“It’s supposed to be...intimate, pleasurable,” he said, as he kissed behind Laurent’s ear, “It’s supposed to give you goosebumps, and butterflies,” he moved to kiss his cheek, “and make you feel happy.”

“I doubt there would be as many children in the world if it wasn’t pleasurable,” Laurent whispered back. 

Damen chuckled, “So, you’re also charismatic in bed, it seems?”

Laurent flushed, hard. He could feel his ears hot. “Shut up.”

“I shall oblige,” said Damen, and then proceeded to kiss him again. Slowly, softly,  _ sweetly _ .  On the eyes, the forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his jawline. 

He brushed his lips on his, like the petal of a flower; such a sublime touch you have to wonder again if it was even real. 

Laurent let out a small gasp as he kissed his neck. He shuddered, again. It felt like music. It felt like...playing music. 

“That — feels good,” he whispered. 

“Taking notes,” Damen whispered, sucking on the spot there. 

He closed his eyes and let out a breath. It was like...feeling everything. Feeling every single part of his body, all at once. Even the small parts he didn’t know he had, he could feel them. 

Hot, uneasy, wanting. 

The clock marked a little past two. Their lips were red and swollen and they were mentally, physically exhausted. By the time he fell asleep, Laurent hadn’t still recovered from it. 

He was dizzy and warm and floating on a cloud. 

Was this how it felt? Being...loved? 


	23. With the Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends.  
> Here's a new chapter for you on this beautiful Sunday.  
> I know it's not my best, but I wrote it with a lot of love and even though I'm not exactly satisfied with how it turned out, I had a good time writing it in spite of my depressive mood and days. So, i hope you enjoy it, at least a little :)  
> Thanks to Ellen, God, she's such an amazing beta I don't know what I'd do without her. And Kelly, my bro, I adore you.  
> Also, thanks to all of you for your lovely comments and messages, you make me feel loved. You make me feel like my song is worth playing.<3
> 
> P.S. I gave in to your demands and created a playlist for every classical song I've mentioned in Étude so far, you can listen to it [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/xlydiadeetz/playlist/3wEXmx7u3DQ0AQ7YnMn70k). Credit to my lovely friend Bee for making the cover art<333

If Auguste had to choose a favorite memory, he knew exactly which one he’d pick. 

If he had to choose a favorite word, too, he knew. 

He had always considered himself lucky.  Even in adversity, he managed to find the little luminous aspects of the world that most people failed to see. Even when he was in pain, even when his body was slowly succumbing to the illness and his time was running off.

Even when his parents passed away, and left him alone with Laurent.

Even when…everything was inevitably ending for him.

Even when there was no possible way of living enough to see Laurent growing up to be the man and musician Auguste knew he could be.

His life was almost over.

Little by little, he, as a being, as a person, was ceasing to exist. The things that made him Auguste de Vere were slowly leaving him. He couldn’t play the piano anymore. He couldn’t go to school or see Victoria or even go to the bathroom on his own. He couldn’t meet with his friends or play soccer or scold Laurent for eating too much candy before dinner. 

He couldn’t, and now he never would. 

_ I am dying.  _

At some point, however, he understood that there was simply no answer that could satisfy his questions. Not his, not anyone else’s in the same or situation as him. There was no reason, and yet it happened.

So, when the doctor and nurses told him to choose a happy memory, his favorite one, he didn’t tell them he had too many to choose from.

He didn’t tell them he had a little brother who used to be smiling and playful and two loving parents that made him infinitely happy. He didn’t tell them because, they were his most precious treasure. Even when those people didn’t exist anymore. 

And that was okay.

He had had a happy life, hadn’t he?

Auguste smiled, and said aloud to his empty hospital room, “The best one.” 

He couldn’t change the facts or the past, but he hoped he could change the future. He had to try — put his last strength into something valuable and important. Because he knew it was going to be hard, he knew it was going to hurt, but he  _ knew _ he wouldn’t be there to help. 

_ ‘Untitled – For Laurent. _

_ Little brother, would you play for me sometime?’ _

As the sun set down, he let the tears roll down and opened the envelope. It looked orange within the dusk light. Orange, the colour of memories, and goodbyes, and smiles. He slid the unfinished score in and sealed it. 

Auguste lay his head back and closed his eyes. It hurt to breathe — it hurt to live. But he had never wanted anything else. He wanted life with pain, with love, with anxiety, with music, with stress and hate and melancholy and grief and friends and everything that it conveyed. 

He longed for the adrenaline, the frustration, the sleepless nights, the colds and the headaches, the stupid pointless fights with Laurent, the kisses with Victoria, the long winters, the hot summers. 

He wanted everything. Everything and more. He wanted the quiet evenings reading a novel, the self-satisfaction of cooking a good meal, the excitement of buying a birthday present for someone you love, the nights Laurent slept anywhere except in his room and Auguste threw a blanket over him. 

Living was so beautiful, so wonderful, made of the smallest details. 

He didn’t regret a single minute of it. Not even those painfully endless ones during the months he was sick. He treasured them all, each more than the last. Because this was his life. This was him. There’d be no other like this one. 

He had been a pianist, a son, a brother, a friend, a teacher. Wasn’t he lucky? To have the chance to do everything.

Everything and more. 

If Auguste had to choose a favorite memory, he knew exactly which one he’d pick. 

 

 

_ Recording.  _

_ “How old are you now, Auguste?” Their dad asked.  _

_ Auguste turned to the camera and smiled, he said, “I just turned eleven.” _

_ Their dad smiled and turned the camera to Laurent, who was already sitting on top of the piano lid, “And you Laurent?” _

_ Looking up from his hands, the small boy said, “What?” _

_ “How old are you now?” _

_ “Seven,” he said proudly, “And a half.” _

_ “What song are you playing for us today?” _

_ “We’re playing…um,” Auguste turned to his little brother, “What are we playing again, Lo?” _

_ Laurent looked at him disbelievingly, “You forgot already!” and then, “Again!” _

_ Auguste had not, of course. But teasing Laurent was always fun, “I’m afraid I have, little brother.” _

_ Laurent sighed and shook his head, then, to the camera he said, “We’re playing Vivaldi’s Violin Concerto in A minor, the first movement.” _

_ It was the piece Laurent had been learning with his instructor. It was rather easy to play on the piano, since the main focus was the violin. Extroverted and playful, meticulous yet repetitive, and it seemed to him that his little brother enjoyed it a lot. If he wasn’t playing it, he was humming it. In the bath, while eating, walking to school, even reading.  _

_ It was one of those songs that helped you focus, playful background music. It lasted a little more than three minutes, and Laurent’s small fingers were moving with precision on the strings. He had not been able to master it completely before, but he had been practicing every day for at least four hours after school.  _

_ It was amazing and fascinating to watch him play. Laurent was only seven, but his sound was rich and powerful. He had everyone captivated, including Auguste.  _

_ And it was so fun when they played, that he thought he wanted to do that for the rest of his life. He wanted to make music with Laurent for the rest of his life.   _

_ As soon as they finished, and their parents started clapping and cheering, Laurent gasped. A loud gasp.  _

_ “What’s wrong, Laurent?” their mom asked.  _

_ Then, Laurent smiled. It was the brightest smile Auguste had seen in his whole life. He said, “I played it! I played it perfectly!” _

He had never forgotten that smile. 

How could he? It was like if all the happiness of the entire world was in that smile. Bright and opened and honest and innocently pure. Like Laurent’s music, like his entire soul. It was funny, because he was missing a tooth. But his eyes were sparkling, and they made Auguste think of the sky. 

“Oh my God, Lo…” 

In his hospital bed, Auguste de Vere watched the sunset. It was orange, like beloved memories, and joyful smiles, and sad goodbyes. 

_ “You did! You did!” Auguste said, helping Laurent jump off the piano lid.  _

_ “Auguste!” said Laurent, and once on the floor, he took his older brother’s hands in his, “Promise me something, Auguste.” _

_ “What is it?” _

_ “Promise me,” he said, and he sounded funny without his tooth, “That we’ll play together forever. We’ll never stop.” _

_ Smiling, Auguste said, “I promise.” _

His wish had been granted, at last. 

He had played with his little brother, for the rest of his life. 

And now…

Now, he was breaking a promise. 

 

 

***

To put it in simple words, composing was hard.

It was hard, and it wasn’t his thing at all. But that wasn’t new, was it? He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing, anymore. Was he looking for something? Was he waiting for something to happen? Like a magic spell, like the curse that had been upon him to be broken, finally.

How do you make music?

It had been a long while, years now, since he last composed something worth calling music. They were simple melodies, none of them reaching the two minutes.

How do you make of the screaming of your heart a melody?

In the middle of his frustration, Laurent de Vere thought, while letting out a long sigh, that it would be ten times easier to rip himself open and take out the notes by force. Extracting them with efficacy and no effort, the feelings he had bottled up and storage in a corner for years. But that was, of course, childish and imaginative and another side effect of his procrastination.

He had closed that door so well, that now he wasn’t sure how to open it. Sort of like when you hide something so, so well, that you forget where it is. And you keep asking yourself why was it that you put it wherever it was, why was it that you had hid it with such precision, If you were inevitably going to look for that thing again?

Why had he hid his music so well?

Where were them, within him, his notes? His anthem?

The anthem of his heart?

How could he reach it again?

Sitting on the piano bench, resting his full weight on his brother’s favorite instrument, he sighed again. And again, and again. Until he was annoyed with himself.

_ Auguste, how do you do this? _

Auguste had always made it seem so easy. He had so many words, so many songs and stories that his life had ran out before he had the chance to tell them all. And Laurent regretted not listening to each of them before it was too late.

Sometimes, Laurent regretted. And just as he did so, he convinced himself he had nothing to regret. But it was almost impossible to know if it was the truth or if he had become such a good liar and that he was starting to fool himself.

He regretted, especially, being so hard on Auguste and his music. He regretted trying to convince his brother that music was nothing to enjoy. Auguste being Auguste never said anything; he just smiled each time.

Each time Laurent was being extremely selfish, he would just smile.

But why?

_ Why did you never say anything? _

Looking back at those moments now, it was more than obvious than Auguste must have been upset more than once, but he never showed it. And Laurent never asked.

_ Why did I never ask? _

He didn’t know…he couldn’t tell…

_ Were you happy? _

_ Were you not? _

For years he thought he had his brother figured out. But now that he was gone, he was starting to see the missing pieces on his board. 

Laurent got up from the bench and moved to sit on the piano this time, then laying down and sprawling himself on the closed lid. The contact of his skin against the cold surface made him shudder a bit. Staring at the ceiling, he wondered how could he hate and love that piano at the same time. How could he fear it yet find comfort in it, too?

He enjoyed lying underneath it, like if it was his sanctuary. There, he felt safe. And whenever he and Auguste had a fight, although it was rare, they always ended up talking things through underneath that piano. With their shoulders touching and the echo of their laughs.

It wasn’t often when Laurent lay down on top of it, like he was doing now. Auguste never did, but he never reprimanded Laurent for it either. He would just….sit down and play. And on lazy days and cold evenings, that’s what they would do.

Auguste would play, and Laurent would listen, sometimes even falling asleep on the piano.

He missed it. 

He missed it very much, Auguste’s sound. When Auguste played, everything made sense. It was breathtaking, but not paralyzing. It didn’t stop the world, it gave it meaning. It was encouraging and motivating and inspiring and…

It made you feel happy for being alive. 

And something he missed more than Auguste’s music was theirs. 

He missed playing with Auguste, so badly, he thought he would die of the desire of going back in time and do everything all over again. 

Because they understood each other so well, and because they were each other’s best friend, their music was the essence of their bond. 

Suddenly, it clicked. 

He found himself looking at the studio backwards, with his head hanging off the instrument and all the blood rushing to his head. He looked at the room, and he thought of that far-off desire of his childhood; how would it be to walk on the roof? 

And it clicked. 

_ Music was the essence. _

He sat up, suddenly, with his heart racing inside his chest and he realized he couldn’t breathe. 

_ It was the essence.  _

_ Laurent, it’s the bond. _

He took a hand to his lips and felt himself flushing. 

_ How do I make him into music?  _

_ Damen, how do I make you into music?  _

 

 

***

“So,” Jord said, putting his mug down after taking a sip of coffee, “Who’s Nicaise?”

“I’m curious to know how Nikandros described him,” Laurent said, and then took a bite of cake. It was spongy and really sweet, vanilla bathed in liquor, with strawberries and whipped cream on top. 

Le Notre wasn’t particularly crowded, and yet, perhaps because it was the start of December and it was too cold outside to survive without coffee, there were more people that you’d expect to find on a Monday mid-morning. 

After his failed and very ridiculous attempt at composing, Laurent had gotten up and walked to the coffee shop where he was supposed to meet Jord. Jord, who was five minutes early, as always, was smoking outside when Laurent spotted him. It took them five minutes and a few awkward glances to get a table near the back, where the bookshelves and plants were. 

It still didn’t sit quite right, the fact that Jord had started to smoke. And Laurent had to suppress a frown each time he thought of the matter.  Maybe because as kids and later teenagers, Jord had always been those who took excellent care of his voice. He was always wrapping mufflers around his throat and avoiding cold drinks and speaking too loud. It was a very meticulous habit he had internalized from a very young age, with Laurent as witness of it, so now it was really hard for him to try to understand the sudden change.

Even if Jord had decided to leave his musical side behind, it felt strange. His voice, which used to be strong, deep and clear,  was now hoarse raspy. 

“Well,” said Jord, “He described him as an annoying little brat with a great appetite.”

Laurent could feel the corners of his mouth twitching into a small smirk, “Sounds like Nicaise.”

“Did he really eat a dozen crab cakes?” 

“Oh no, that’s an exaggeration,” Laurent shrugged, “It was more like ten, and then he had a stomachache.” 

“That’s the least I’d expect, to be honest.”

“He goes to Charcy,” Laurent started, moving the spoon in his coffee, “He was one of Auguste’s students. And now I’m mentoring him for the Royal competition.”

Jord’s eyes widened, “So you’re teaching him, for the Royal.”

Laurent nodded, “I’m not possessed, I already checked.”

“Well,” Jord said, “That was a plot twist:”

“I know.”

With a complicit smile, “Is he that good?” 

Laurent asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I know you, so I can only imagine he has to be a violinist genius if you’re willing to teach him.” 

“On the contrary,” Laurent said, taking another bite of cake, “He’s a mediocre. He plays Kreisler and it sounds like a screeching cat. He has a terrible posture and he keeps skipping notes.” 

“But?”

“There’s no ‘but’.” Jord gave him a look. 

Rolling his eyes a bit, “But,” Laurent continued, “He...impressed me. Every time he plays, it’s as if he was stealing the piece from the composer.” 

And suddenly you have a hard time remembering if it’s his song or whose. He doesn’t care, he imposes himself over the song. He plays Kreisler and you only hear Nicaise, he plays Beethoven & Vivaldi and you only hear Nicaise.

He was a strong violinist, even with his flaws. 

In a soft voice, Jord said, “I’d like to listen to him play one day.” And then, before Laurent could reply, “I’m going out to smoke for a bit.”

_ Again?  _

He was left alone with his cake and two unfinished cups of coffee. Without thinking it twice, he ate the rest of the cake and went outside. 

Standing next to Jord, he said, “Can I try one?”

Jord turned to him, “You don’t smoke.”

“You didn’t use to, either.”

With a sigh, he offered the box to Laurent, “Auguste would kill me if he knew I was giving you cigarettes.”

Ignoring him, Laurent took one from the box and let Jord light it up for him. He had seen his father, years prior, smoke occasionally. Usually, he did it in the garden, on cool days, next to the lemon tree. He tried to remember how it was, how to hold it between his fingers. 

He put it in his lips and inhaled, but perhaps too brusquely. His mouth was filled with strong, acrid smoke that he ended up swallowing in an attempt to breathe. His five senses were yelling at him, wanting the suffocating feeling to go away. His eyes were teary eyed, but he refused to cough it off. Not yet. 

_ How could people like it?  _

The smell — it reminded him of his uncle. It was always in his clothes, rancid and penetrating. 

Finally, he started to cough. He coughed, and coughed, covering his mouth with his elbow and spitting a few times. 

“I told you you wouldn’t like it,” Jord said, pushing back the box in his front pocket. 

“I don’t understand,” said Laurent, between coughs, “Aimeric’s dead, Auguste’s dead, and you—you’re poisoning yourself with this.”

Jord shifted his weight on his foot and looked away. Laurent watched him, waiting for an answer, but it never came. 

Once he could breathe again, he said, in a softer voice, “Are you still seeing that therapist?”

Shaking his head, “No, not since high school.”

For fraction of a second, Laurent wanted to do something stupid and tell him to go back. But he couldn’t. How could he? Who was he to give advice on the matter when he himself never took any from anyone? 

It was hyp—

“You can say it,” Jord said, and let out a small, bitter laugh, “I was a hypocrite when I told you to play the violin when I haven’t used my voice in more than five years.”

“But,” Laurent said, and he made himself throw out the truth. It was a terrible sound, the word  _ but.  _ When we say it, we’re hoping things can change _.  _ We’re hoping our next words are enough. “You were right. It hurts, playing the violin. Singing will hurt, too. But,” And again. It took all of his willpower to throw away the cigarette and say, “It’s enough to have lost them. Don’t take my advice, then, take yours.” 

He realized then, that he was angry. He was angry, because he cared. He was angry because he cared and he couldn’t help. 

Because months ago, Jord had given him advice and he hadn’t listened. And now he was on the other side. 

How do you help someone that doesn’t want to be helped? 

How do you make them understand? 

“I have a class now,” he said, even though it wasn’t true, and he left. 

 

 

***

He was still angry by the time he got home, and he very much still was when Victoria showed up at his door. He had forgotten he was supposed to introduce her and Nicaise today. So, he tried, the best he could, to keep his emotions in check. 

“Nicaise,” Laurent said, “This is Victoria.”

Lowering his violin, Nicaise looked at him, and then at Victoria, standing next to him. Victoria was smiling politely, and Laurent saw it in her eyes that she was intrigued. He knew that question perfectly, himself. 

_ Who are you?  _ Because it was easier than asking,  _ What kind of musician are you? _

You could be a violinist, or a pianist, a trumpetist, a euphonist, but the main question wouldn’t change. Musicians are so different, so unique, that it is almost impossible to classify them into categories. 

Music was  the compilation of everything in your life. It wasn’t,  _ “you are what you play” _ but  _ “you play what you are.”   _ When you play, you’re exposing everything. 

“You’re shorter than I thought,” said Nicaise. Victoria laughed. It was true that up close Nicaise was probably around the same height as Victoria, if not a little taller already. 

“Nicaise,” Laurent threatened, “Be polite.”

“It’s fine,” she shrugged, “Nice to meet you, Nicaise.”

“You too,” he said, watching her with the same curiosity. 

They settled in the studio with Auguste’s piano where Vivaldi was sleeping. Victoria didn’t hesitate to pet his head before sitting down on the bench and opening the lid to the keyboard. There was something about the way her hands traced his brother’s instrument that was heart-wrenching. 

It was the point where lovers met, past and present. And, he thought that it was curious, and unusual, like a point of connection. Auguste’s heart, and her. The music he so dearly loved, and the girl he played for. The instrument, and the muse, together without the pianist. 

And the heavy weight of his absence in the air. 

Laurent watched her close her eyes and whisper something he couldn’t make out, in another language, perhaps. 

“Very well,” she said, “Have you chosen a song already? When is the next round?”

“After the holidays, in January.” Laurent said. 

“So, we have around a month to practice. Not bad.”

“I wanted to play something by Paganini.” Nicaise said, then jumped, excitedly, “What about  _ Caprice twenty-four _ ?”

Victoria smiled, “That’s a good one.”

“You’re not in the level to play Paganini,” Laurent said, “Besides, I’ve already chosen a song for you.”

He had, in fact, stayed up late a few days before, doing research on the list and composers approved by the Royal. If they wanted to win, they needed to find the perfect song. They had already missed points because of the accompanist issue, and Nicaise had made many mistakes. Maybe with a song that was easier, simple, in matters of technique, but well-played. A song Nicaise could master completely, both musically and emotionally.  _ “Danse Macabre” _ had been fun, but too explosive and it had costed them a few many points. 

Laurent reached over for his satchel and took out a folder, then handed the score to Nicaise, who frowned. 

“Rachmaminoff?” 

Nodding, “Yes,” then,  he handed a similar score to Victoria, “This is the piano arrangement.”

“Oh, I love this song,” she said, “It’s very sweet.”

“It’s too slow,” Nicaise said, “I don’t want to play that.”

“Too bad. It’s already decided.”

“The judges will fall asleep. Plus they’re already very old.”

“Nicaise.”

Nicaise said, tossing the paper away, “What about  _ ‘Hungarian Dance’ _ ?”

He felt it, the moment where he stopped controlling his emotions. The anger from before was raising up like acid in his throat. He snapped, “Your technique is mediocre and your repertoire average. You played one Beethoven Sonata decently, yes, but you also fucked up Danse Macabre. If you want to win, you’ll play what I say. But if you’re going to contradict me each time, Nicaise, then go ahead, do whatever you want but I’m not helping you anymore, and don’t come back crying later.”

Nicaise was staring at him wide eyed, and the reaction only helped Laurent grow more irritated.

“Did you understand?”

The boy nodded, and took back the score. In a very quiet voice, he said,“We’ll play this one, then.” 

Victoria said nothing, but gave Nicaise a reassuring smile and then they started to play. Laurent listened to them, while sitting on a chair by the desk. He listened, trying to make the throbbing anger go away, to push it back down to where it belonged, deep inside his heart with the rest of the things that hurt him but that he never allowed himself to externalize. 

“Your posture’s wrong,” he said, to Nicaise. 

But it wasn’t working. 

“Tight grip on the bow.”

Not at all.

“You’re making mistakes I did when I was six,” he said. 

He was losing control. 

“Do you even know how to play?”

And when he lost control, he made mistakes. 

Mistakes like Aimeric, and Damen, and Jord, and Auguste, and Nikandros. Nicaise. His words, his cutting, deprecating words, were the red flowers. 

The sins from his nightmares, the poison in all the people he cared about. It was unfortunate, caring. 

“ _ Laurent _ ,” Victoria said, “He’s playing just  _ fine _ .” 

“How would you know?” he said, “You’re a pianist.”

The piano stopped, and soon followed the violin. Music was replaced with tension, loud silence. He watched as how, very deliberately, Victoria stood up. She crossed the studio, irradiating calm fury, like a punishing goddess. 

Somehow, it reminded Laurent of the one that, upon finding out about her husband’s adultery, shot an arrow to his cock. 

She stood up in front of him, and he found himself holding his breath. She grabbed his cheeks, pressed on them with her thumbs. Her perfectly manicured fingernails digging into his flesh, “Look at me.”

He was. He couldn’t divert his gaze when she was the angriest he’d seen her ever. He was about to snap her hand away, but she glared. 

Victoria was small and curvy, like a Nymph from a fairytale And so, often, people underestimated her because of her physical appearance. But then, you saw her moving, you heard her speak, you listened to her music. And you realize, she was the Queen all along. Powerful, strong,  _ victorious _ . Confident and unafraid. 

And now, she had control. 

She said, spitting out the words in her accent, “Stop taking your anger out on Nicaise. If you’re going to be an asshole, then we don’t need you right now. Come back when you’re Laurent again.” 

_ Come back when you’re Laurent again.  _

Not “yourself” but “Laurent.” The way she said it, like she knew him, like she knew a Laurent that wasn’t  _ this _ . 

Her eyes, angry and dark, were shooting arrows at him. She let go off his face, at last, and they stared at each other for a few seconds. Then, gracefully as always, she walked back and sat on the piano. 

“Let’s start again, Nicaise.”

Nicaise, wide eyed, nodded. 

As they resumed their practice, Laurent stood up and walked out the room. 

 

 

***

He was sitting underneath the lemon tree, in the backyard. 

Honestly, it was too cold outside. Winter had already started, and soon enough, it’d be too cold to be out with only a thin sweater. 

But at the moment, he didn’t really care. He was upset, and needed a place where he could sit down and reorganize his thoughts. A familiar place with a nice smell of nature and memories that weren’t unpleasant. 

He was sitting there, with his back against the trunk, looking up at the sky. It was clear, blue, not a single cloud around. The day was sunny, kind of windy too. He realized, then, that he hadn’t stared up at the sky in a while. It always gave him comfort. 

It helped to calm him down, when he was out of control. 

Usually, when you suffer from anxiety, when you feel like you cannot breathe, they tell you to find a window, or go outside, and look up at the sky. And it’s like...whatever that is trapping you, can’t do so anymore. You’re free. And your chest stops hurting, and slowly, you can start breathing again. And your mind comes back from whichever panicking room it was in, and you feel so very small in such an enormous, vast world, that you forget instantly what it was that made you so upset. 

It doesn’t erase your problems, they’re very much waiting for you. But it doesn’t feel the same, this time. Because, when there are such great things like the opened sky, then everything else suddenly loses importance. 

He didn’t know what to do. Sometimes, he knew. Sometimes, he thought, he could do it alone. He could fix things, even without Auguste with him. And then, sometimes, like today, he was clueless about...everything. 

The first step to solve a problem is to identify the source. If you know what is causing the problem, you’re most likely to find a solution. However, it was also most likely that the source of his problems were unsolved situations from the past. 

Jord — they had been friends for years. Since they were children, because they had always been in the same class and he was the least annoying and one of the few smart ones. They had never been close, not really, but then again, Laurent was not close with anyone except Auguste. 

For years, he could read him. But now he couldn’t, and that was bothering him. He didn’t know what he was thinking, which was rare and worrying when Jord was always so honest. After high school, they had drifted apart, and now it seemed like they were on two different sides of the Atlantic. 

He thought he could hear Auguste’s voice, saying,  _ “Well then, you make a bridge.”  _ And he smiled, involuntarily, because his brother was always so simple. Reliable and tranquil, always finding solutions before you had even finished telling the problem. 

He needed him, still. 

Laurent wanted to help Jord as he wanted to help Nicaise and Victoria. Maybe, he wanted to help all of them, but he didn’t know how to. Or if he should. If it was right, or if it wasn’t. 

He wasn’t used to that. He couldn’t find a solution to everything, this time. 

Unsure of how much time he had spent outside, he was considering going back when he saw Victoria walking out to the garden. She saw him, and waved a little before walking towards him. 

He heard the branches moving along with the wind as she said, in a very child-like voice, while standing right next to him, “Well, I’m finally taller than you.”

Laurent looked up at her, who smiled in return. Her anger from earlier was gone completely, and maybe his was too. 

“I like the song you picked for him, you know. A very good choice,” she said, “It surprised me, though.”

Finally, he pulled himself back together, and said, “That’s the whole point. The judges get tired of the same songs over and over.”

“There,” she said, then, smiling again, “See? Was that so hard to say? You can indeed explain things without destroying a person’s psyche. Good for you.”

Because it was Victoria, and because she had become like an older sister to him at some point, and because he knew she loved Auguste as much as he loved him, he said, almost whispering, “I’m sorry.”

“Go tell him, then. He’s inside playing with Vivi.” And then, while putting her hands behind her back, “You know, Laurent, I came to the conclusion that there are two things you can’t expect people to take for granted. Don’t expect that he knows you’re sorry; go tell him. Don’t expect someone to know you love them; you have to go tell them.”

“Victoria,” he said, after a minute. She looked at him and he swallowed before continuing. “How do you help someone that doesn’t want to be helped?”

She seemed to think about it for a minute, making sounds and scratching her head. Then, finally, “I think it’s like a baby, you know? They’re sitting there, and you tell them they’re going to fall if they keep balancing on the chair like that, but they don’t listen and then they fall. And then, they cry. And you pick them up, kiss the boo boo, scold them a little.” She shrugged, “I think it’s the same. You can’t help someone that doesn’t want to be helped, but you’re there in case they need you.”

_ In case they need you.  _

But who would need him? No one, probably. 

_ Vivi, perhaps.  _

How do you put back together something you broke without cutting yourself with the pieces? How do you get through the pain of fixing — of healing?

He sighed, and looked at Victoria again, who was staring up at the sky this time. Then, he realized, “Did you — cut your hair again?”

Smiling, she looked down and  said, “You noticed. I did, yes. I think this one looks better, right?”

Instead of the wavy bob she had used after Auguste’s death, it was now shorter. A pixie cut that accentuated her curls. He also realized she was wearing makeup again, and a forest green sweater which was a change from the usual black and blue she’d been wearing since the funeral. 

“It certainly suits you.” he said. 

“Yours suits you too,” she said, twirling her fingers in his long-ish hair. Soon enough, it’d reach his shoulders. “Are you going to keep it long?”

“Probably not,” he said. Auguste wore it long. 

_ Not yet.  _

Victoria reached down and kiss the center of his head, whispering, “You can  _ cut all the flowers  _ but you cannot keep  _ Spring _ from coming.” 

“I know that,” he whispered back. Her presence was so...comforting. How can a person be as scary as she’s noble?

“Here,” she grabbed his palm and placed something in it, then closed his fist. “I thought a lot about it, and maybe I should return this.”

He knew what it was before he opened his hand. Her ring, his mom’s ring. It lay on his fair skin, shining against the sunlight. “No,” he shook his head and took her hand. “No, Auguste...Auguste gave it to you. It’s yours, keep it.”

“But it was your mother’s…”

“I wouldn’t give it to anyone else,” he said, placing the ring back on her palm. He couldn’t keep his voice from breaking, “Don’t forget him.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she slid the ring back to her finger, “How could I? He gave me a lifetime of happiness, a thousand mornings of joy. And I—” her voice broke too, so she swallowed, “I will die of the desire to tell him that I will miss him.”

She cleaned her tears away, and sighed, then chuckled. “Good thing I spent twenty dollars on that waterproof mascara.” Looking at the ring, “You’re right, though. Damen wouldn’t look good with this.”

“Jesus,” Laurent muttered, suddenly annoyed,  “You’re just like my brother.”

 

 

***

Walking inside together, they found Nicaise running around the living room with Vivi chasing him. It looked like they had been doing that for a while now. 

“What are you doing?” Laurent asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“We’re playing tag,” Nicaise managed to say between breaths. 

However, when Vivaldi saw them, he ran towards them instead. After sniffing Victoria, he was content enough to let her carry him. 

“You’re a beautiful cat, the most beautiful,  _ bellissimo. _ ” She whispered as she pet his head. 

Exchanging a look with Nicaise, he said, “Come with me.”

Nicaise obeyed, and they walked back to the studio. Laurent closed the door behind them, and gave himself a moment to inhale. 

_ Just say it.  _

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

Nicaise stared at him, and then bit his lips awkwardly. Nodding, he slid his hands into his front pockets, “Okay.”

“You still need to fix your posture, though.”

Laughing, Nicaise said, “Fuck you.” and then, “You owe me Mcdonald’s.”

“Fair enough.”

“With a sundae.”

“Alright.”

“And…”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, too.” 

Laurent looked at him, then. It was obvious Nicaise didn’t know how to do this either, and that gave him some strange sense of relief. At least he wasn’t alone. 

They were not alone. 

He smiled, it was a soft smile, different than the ones he gave Damen or Vivi, but he didn’t know where it came from, or what it meant. Affectionate, like the smiles he gave Auguste, and yet still different. 

“Okay.”

  
  


***

_ I remember on arriving that you didn't even look at me.  _

_ Nevertheless, they were yours, the first desires.  _

The dictionary defines the word “desire” as a strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen. Synonyms: need, intention, yearning. 

It was a strange thing, another of many in his life, to desire someone. He didn’t know it could be possible. He didn’t know it felt like this; hot, thirsty, swallowing, painful.  Burning fire that started and finished where their lips met, and that went all through his body. A spark, and then an explosion on his insides. 

Damen’s hands were gentle, but they burned. 

He tried to register the scene, capture it in his mind. Damen’s lips tasted like the apricots and ice cream they had been eating, and he smelled of shampoo. His eyes were dark and dilated, and his cheeks slightly reddened. They were on Damen’s bed, in his apartment, laying down in the dark like they liked to do when they talked. 

His body was hot, their bodies were hot, and pulsing. They were kissing, almost colliding. And it didn’t matter how many more times they did, how many more sins they shared, it was more unsatisfying than the last. 

That was _ desire _ . 

It was the fact that Laurent wanted it, him,  _ them _ . And he didn’t care about consequences, his rational side be damned. Because he had been looking for answers, for something. Because he wanted to have Damen closer, to feel him closer. 

_ How do I make him into music?  _

_ Damen, how do I make you into music?  _

To be a good musician, you had to lose things. That very well he knew. To be a good musician, you had to feel things to an extreme. And there was no going back from there. 

Laurent pulled away to catch his breath and saw his undying desire reflected on Damen’s eyes. His heart was beating fast, and he realized then that this was the moment. 

This was the choice. 

Because he could still back away from this one, he could still leave. Damen would let him. If he asked him to stop, Damen would immediately. And the fact that he knew that was also the fact that made the decision easier. 

Because he trusted him. 

When Laurent didn’t trust anyone, when his mind was blocked by a hundred walls and his heart surrounded by dozens of guards, there was one person that managed to enter. And he didn’t break in by force, like a brute.  He did so gently, sweetly, patiently. 

“Damen,” he whispered, and he didn’t recognize his own voice. He swallowed, “Damen, I want—”

Damen caressed his cheek with his thumb, and asked, in a low but soft voice, “What do you want, Laurent?”

_ What did he want?  _

How could he put it into words? How could he put words to the screaming of his heart when he didn’t know what it was saying? 

He could think of a thousand things he’d want. A thousand and one, and yet…

And yet.

A truth. A lie. 

_ I pretend that I don't know, and that you haven't found out _

_ I pretend that I don't like being with you... _

_ And as I get lost inside myself… _

_ Damen _

“You.”

Damen stopped. For a fraction of a second, Laurent saw him stop. Then, very carefully, Damen whispered, “You have me.” and then, louder, “Laurent, you have me.”

Sitting up on the bed, Laurent pushed on Damen’s chest softly. He could hear his own pulse, and Damen’s. He was aware of every detail, like the movement of his own adam’s apple, and his own hands, lifting up his shirt and taking it off. He tossed it to the floor in a single, deliberate swing of his wrist. 

He could stop this. He still had time. 

But what if...this was the only chance he got?  

What if this was the first and the last? 

Life was always changing. And the person that it’s with you now might not be there tomorrow. 

_ I don't want to not be by your side _

He moved towards Damen, pulling on his shirt and taking it off. Then, he tossed it away with his. Their eyes met, and he flushed, before saying, quietly, “There’s never...been anyone else. It’s only you.”

Damen nodded, “There...have been others.” It was a confession. 

“I know.”

It was a strange thing, another of many in his life, to love someone. He kissed Damen, sealing his feelings on his lips. He kissed Damen, knowing that what was about to happen would change them forever. Knowing that this song couldn’t be stopped, that there was no going back. He kissed Damen and realized their hearts were beating at the same tempo, the same rhythm. 

He kissed Damen, knowing that Auguste was gone. Knowing that his life was a mess, and his world was falling apart. Knowing that he didn’t have anything to offer Damen more than his vague words and contradictory actions. 

But he kissed him being Laurent, the truest, the realest he had ever been. The most honest. With all his flaws, and wounds and his ghosts and regrets. He kissed him feeling love in every cell of his body. He kissed him with his violinist heart. 

Laurent kissed Damen, and he sealed a song on his lips. Because this is how you make music. 

This is how you love, and you are loved. 

If he couldn’t love with words, he’d love with notes. 

After all, what was him but a bad medley, an orchestra out of sync? 

Laurent let Damen undress him and lay him down. He let Damen touch him against the shudders, and kiss every part of his body he desired. 

He was desperate, but at the same time, he didn’t want it to end ever. He wanted to feel Damen in every inch of his skin forever. He wanted him, all of him.

Damen, the guy he had fallen for in high school. Auguste’s best friend. The captain of the football team. The one that made his stomach drop and his anxiety raise and the one he hated and wanted to beat up. 

The one that hurt him, and that he hurt back. 

Damen, with his sentimental values and his friendship. With his honesty and kindness and patience and his curly hair and brown eyes. 

Eyes like cannelés.

A sound escaped his mouth and he tilted his head back. 

_ Too much, too much.  _

_ Not enough.  _

“Damen,” he said, helplessly, “Damen—”

Damen drew his fingers out and kissed him, once, twice. 

_ The pain sinks into my side, my world becomes blurry.  _

_ I am thirsty and I'm swallowing.  _

_ I don't want to not be by your side.  _

He let out a gasp and closed his eyes, inevitably. Slowly, painfully, he was aware of every single sensation. Of the sweat at the back of his neck and Damen’s strangled breath. Damen stayed still, giving him time to adjust. It was obvious that he was worried, and Laurent wanted to laugh. He was attentive. 

“Are you okay?” asked Damen. 

Laurent nodded. He was out of breath, like if he had been punched. But then, everything that had left him; his words, his mind, his heart, his songs, his soul, his life, they all came back to him at once. 

Damen had told him it was beautiful — but it was more than that. It was so much more. It was overwhelming. It was painful. It was the heartbreak, and the mending. 

And he couldn’t believe Damen was giving him  _ this _ . 

As he moved inside of him, Damen whispered, helplessly, “I want you,” and then, “Laurent, I—”

_ “You’re not alone.”  _

_ “I’ve always been here.” _

_ “I missed you.” _

Laurent nodded, again, and again, as he made the softest sounds. He wrapped his arms around Damen’s shoulders, and Damen dropped his head on his neck. They were one, spiritually, emotionally, physically.

And he loved him. 

Laurent loved him. 

It wasn’t that Damen was everything, because he was not. But he was the man Laurent wanted to share everything with. 

And then, just like that, he came. 

_ I will die of the desire to tell you… _

 

 

***

“Vivi fell asleep on top of the dryer,” Damen said, handing him the glass of water. 

“He likes doing that,” Laurent nodded, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he smiled, and lay back down on the bed next to him, “You okay?”

“Damen,” Laurent said, “If you don’t stop asking me if I’m okay, I will break your neck.”

Damen said, grinning, “Kinky,” then propped his head up with his hand, “I like that.”

He rolled his eyes and sipped his water without another word. It was late, he was exhausted and sore. 

After giving in to his pleasure, he had come back to himself in pieces. Like returning home from an alternative reality. And Damen was there, petting his hair, holding him, looking at him like he was the most precious thing in the world. 

Like he loved him back. 

Even if he didn’t, even if it wasn’t like that and Laurent was wrong, he was happy. He hadn’t felt happy, not even a fraction of how he was right now, since before Auguste got sick. 

At some point, he thought he would start crying. He thought he wouldn’t be able to hold it in, anymore. But he didn’t, no, this...wasn’t like that. 

“Where are you,  _ Vicomte _ ?” Damen whispered. 

Laurent left the glass of water on the nightstand and lay down, wrapping Damen’s arm around his waist. Damen’s fingers moved onto his stomach, making circles near his belly button. 

“Sleeping,” he said.

“It’s only three in the morning,” Damen said, then yawned, “The night is young.”

“Let’s go to sleep,” Laurent whispered, brushing the curls at Damen’s head. 

Damen whispered back, “Alright.” Then, moved to peck his lips softly. 

Laurent made an involuntary sound of contentment, and then took a hand to his left ear. He touched his piercing there, and then pulled on the lobe softly. It was automatic. 

As was Damen’s reaction, who smiled and reached to touch Laurent’s hand before he dropped it. 

 

 

***

_ Auguste, brother, something happened.  _

_ And I’m terrified.  _

_ What should I do, now?  _

 

 

***

To put it in simple words, composing was hard.

But that day, the notes flowed easily. He realized, then, that maybe it hadn’t worked before because he was using the wrong instrument. 

All along, he tried to compose on the piano, when he wasn’t a pianist. His heart was a violinist, how could he make such a huge mistake? 

He picked up his violin—Cecil. Resting it on his shoulder, he found relief in the familiar weight of his friend, one of many he had neglected. 

He felt like he should make amends with him, too. 

_ Forgive me,  _ he thought,  _ I abandoned you, too. I need you now.  _

So, Laurent de Vere stood there, and played. He played, he  _ felt _ . It was a soft melody, shy and delicate and fresh. Filled with happy notes that evoked innocence and joy. Like a  _ papillon _ , flying around in a day of spring. 

_ Damen’s song.  _

He closed his eyes and felt himself smiling, his mind leaving to his own internal world. His hands dancing on the violin like they knew how to. His heart, singing. 

It had never been screaming, it was singing. 

_ You’re in love.  _

_ Laurent,  _ the violin said _ , you’re in love.  _


	24. Vocalise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...
> 
> I would say I'm sorry, but am I really? 
> 
>  
> 
> As always thanks to my wonderful beta Ellen and shoutout to my beautiful friends Kelly and Bee who will probably scream at me after this.  
> P.S. Happy Birthday, Étude. Been writing you for six months now<3

How do you fix a broken heart?

The dictionary defines the word _brokenhearted_ as overcome with grief and despair, filled with great sadness especially because someone you love has left you. Synonyms: inconsolable, disconsolate, saddened, wretched, unhappy, _miserable_.

It was a very curious definition, especially because the reason or main cause to someone’s sorrow was as simple as the mere, mundane act of a person leaving. Leaving somewhere else, far from you, with no return ticket and no promises of seeing each other again.

To say the least, it was accurate. Accurate because someone was indeed leaving.

How curious, wasn’t it?

Damen was leaving.

And even though it was what Laurent had wanted at some point, what he had thought he could convince himself to want in a desperate act of self preservation, what he had thought he could overcome with indifference, he couldn’t deal with the profound _tristesse_ that invaded him.

He couldn’t even find the proper word to say it, to convey what he was feeling. Why would you want a word that would describe the pure, unadulterated pain he felt in his chest and that refused to leave, no matter what he did?

Aggrieved, distressed, troubled, uneasy, unquiet, upset, worried, despairing, hopeless, sunk, disappointed, discouraged, disheartened, dispirited, suicidal, dolorous, lachrymose, plaintive.

Tearful.

Regretful.

Somber.

He went through each of the words, one darker than the last, but neither was enough. Not one. They weren’t enough for this.

Even though it had been Laurent who had said it was over, even though it had been him that refused to take Damen’s calls, the one to swear there wouldn’t be a sequel, a second part, another chapter in their tragicomedy, he couldn’t…

He just couldn’t.

How could he forget? How could he ignore the memories that were probably the best of his life? Even if his mind obeyed him and Damen didn’t touch the realm of his thoughts, unfortunately, his body was another thing.

His fingers ached for Damen’s. To touch him, to feel him there.

God, he wanted him there.

It was easier to never have found it, than to do so and have it taken away. It was much easier, much less painful, to never have met him.

Than to see him walk away.           

It was easier to hate him, or learn to do so. It was easier to let Damen think Laurent hated him. It was easier to avoid saying goodbyes, to leave the wound opened and suppurating than complying and fixing everything. Than to take Damen’s calls, and see him off. It was easier to let Damen think Laurent was forgetting him than to kiss him one last goodbye in good terms because their story had to end here, with a period at the end of the line and no second thoughts or far-off wishes of long distance pleasantries.

No.

Even if there had been a way to fix it, it was too late. Even if they had fixed it, the result would have been the same.

Damen was leaving.

He didn’t know how this was the right thing to do, he didn’t know how this was the best for both of them. He couldn’t think anymore. He thought that at some point he had analyzed facts, calculating risks and possible consequences. But now…

… Now it didn’t even matter.

Analyzing and calculating were both useless when your own heart was being dismembered inside your chest and you couldn’t stop it from happening. When you felt like a vital part of you was agonizing but you didn’t know how to help the pain away. There was no way.

And even though sometimes you thought you were fine, because you watched an entire movie and laughed, because you actually enjoyed your tuna salad at lunchtime and you went out to enjoy the summer, you always came back to the same place.

He always came back to the same place. Alone, laying down on his bed in his bedroom. Alone, holding what had been once a beautiful music box with a loopy ‘L’ drawn on top.  With details in blue and gold and a small violinist swaying to melody.

Alone, wondering how he had ended up there. How they all had ended up there. Broken, and sad, and divided.

They had all been friends once.

 _No_ , a voice inside his head said, _No, you were never part of it._

_You were never part of them._

The darkness of his bedroom was suddenly breached by light, coming in from the hall. His door was carefully opened, and he didn’t need to look up to know it was his brother.

Probably already dressed up, ready to go. His best friend was leaving for college; obviously he organized a farewell party.

“Lo,” Auguste said. It was more like a gentle whisper, but Laurent could feel the sadness in his voice, “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

Laurent didn’t move. He clutched the remnants of the broken music box closer to his chest on the bed.  He turned it over, again and again. For some reason, he couldn’t stop staring at it.  Auguste had tried to fix it, but he couldn’t. And the fact that he felt guilty for that only made the pain in Laurent’s heart worse.

It wasn’t his fault at all.

And yet, he was trying to pick up the broken plates.

Laurent hated him for that.

Quietly, but still loud enough for Auguste to hear him, he said, “I’m sure.”

He could feel his brother’s stare, but he was afraid of looking up for he knew he wouldn’t like the expression on his face. It felt awful, to disappoint Auguste. Very deep inside, he knew, Auguste deserved a better brother. Someone like him, playful, extroverted, caring…

Someone who didn’t hurt everyone else.

Someone who could keep his mouth shut.

Someone, anyone but Laurent.

Laurent hated himself for that, too.

“Alright,” Auguste said, still standing by the door. After a pause, he said, “I’ll be back later. You can order pizza for dinner.”

“Okay,” Laurent whispered.

Footsteps, and the next thing he knew, Auguste was wrapping his arms around him. Bringing his head to his chest and then kissing it. “I love you.”

_Don’t say that._

“You too.”

Lifting his head carefully, Auguste looked at him and gave him a comforting smile, “Will you be okay?”

_No._

“Yes,” he nodded, and then, “You’re going to be late.”

“I know,” Auguste whispered. Then, reached to take the broken music box from his hands, but he tensed up. Auguste took his hands back, “Maybe watch a movie or something.”

Laurent nodded again, “I will.”

“Okay,” Another pause, like if he was expecting Laurent to add anything else. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye, Auguste.” He breathed out.

“Bye, Lo.”

With Auguste gone, Laurent closed his eyes and took in a sharp breath. He waited until he heard the front door close and then the starting of his brother’s car.

He couldn’t breathe.

Sitting up, he inhaled, and then felt his chest contract when he tried to exhale. He couldn’t, there was no air inside his lungs.

When love ends, one of the two suffers. If none of them do, then it was never love. But if both of them suffer, then it never really ended.

He could learn to hate him, even if the idea made him physically ill. And he could hope for Damen to hate him back, even if just imagining it made a mess of his insides.

_Don’t hate me._

He had to.

_Don’t hate me._

He had to.

_Don’t leave me._

“Shut up,” he said, holding his head in his hands, “Shut up, shut up.” He couldn’t breathe.

_Whoever you are, shut up._

He had promised himself he wouldn’t feel, he wouldn’t cry. Just one tear, only one. He had promised himself not to feel any pain. He had sworn it under that tree.

But he was being split open; his heart was ripping him open.

He could fear the tears in his eyes, blurring his vision. And the more frustrated he grew, the more desperate he became.

_“You’re cold, manipulative, and a jerk. And people get tired of being hurt. One day, you will end up alone.”_

_“I hope I can be there to watch you when you finally fall off your pedestal.”_

Aimeric had been right.

This was the falling.

He choked, “Shut up,” and again, “Shut up,” his voice broke, “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he said, hitting his own chest, on the place where his heart was supposed to be. He couldn’t tell if it was pleading or commanding, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up I don’t need you.”

_Stop. Please. Stop._

_You’re hurting me, too._

_You’re hurting us, too._

He was in a maze with no way out, a street with a dead end. A battle with no armor, a battle where with each step he took he knew he was going to lose.

No matter the angle, no matter the weapon, he’d lose.

All along, he had been the two edged sword, the self-destructive musician. He wasn’t the secondary character, the friend, the lover. He was the villain, the anti-hero, the despicable soul with a cold-blooded nature whose job was hurting others.

He wasn’t anything but destructive, anything but _mean_.

_Laurent, what have you done?_

_What have you ruined this time?_

_Whose heart did you break today?_

_How about you try it yourself?_

He didn’t know it felt like _thi_ s. Like if every physical pain he had ever endured in his entire life was focused on his chest at the same time, like if the weight of guilt and shame and frustration was crushing him.

Like if his deprecating, cutting words were hitting all his sensible spots. Like if the one he was fighting was no other but himself.

“Shut up,” he yelled. “I want this to stop. I want this to stop!”

He was mad, he was sad, he was everything at once.

How had he ruined it? After nurturing his feelings from afar, after having it all, more than he would have ever imagined. After he had given Damen more than he thought he would, and Damen had made him immensely happy.

How?

He kicked his trash can first, and then knocked the chair of his desk to the ground. He sent a book flying across his room and broke a thing or two.

Damen was leaving.

And the only one who couldn’t say goodbye was him.

The only one who didn’t belong to them was him.

The only one who was suffering was him.

No one else cared. No one cared about him at all. Even Auguste was with them.

Auguste, happy and charming. The one everyone adored and that he adored back. His one and only brother, Damen’s best friend.

He hated him. He hated them both.

Were they secretly happy that he was in pain?

His hands were fists by his sides and he was shaking with anger. In an impulse, he stormed out of his room and into Auguste’s, kicking everything he could in the process. He didn’t know what he was doing; he just wanted to find something. Something he could break, something he could ruin.

That was his role, anyway.

To cause and receive pain.

To hurt and to be hurt.

He grabbed it as soon as he saw it, the framed picture from graduation. He stared at them, at their happy faces. Then he threw it across the room to the opposite wall, and the glass smashed in one dry sound.

_I hate you._

_I hate you so much._

And then, just as fast as he had done that, as his sadness had turned to anger and his anxiety into a rage attack, he came back. His mind came back.

Slowly, he walked to the wall and reached over to pick up the picture, just to wince almost immediately. Looking at his hands, he realized he had cut himself with the broken glass. He stared at the blood drops running down his fingers and wondered.

He wondered. Then picked up a piece of glass from the floor. He pushed it down on the palm of his hand, then slid. A perfect, clean cut.  It hurt. The hand that he moved on the violin, the one that Damen had connected with his.

He groaned and dropped the crystal, only for it to smash in smaller pieces. He gripped his hand and closed it, taking it to his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispered, biting his lip, “Fuck. Fuck.”

He just….

He just wished…he wished he could go back. He wished they could all go back to that day in February, where they sat on a circle under that tree.

He wished he could make things different. Made other choices.

But it was too late. And wishes were for children. Wishes were for the good ones, like Auguste.

He had to clean up before Auguste got home. But he found that he couldn’t move, he had kneeled to the floor and now he couldn’t get up.

Laurent felt the tears on his face, but did nothing to stop them. He felt them; each one left him a mark. It was painful even to cry. Not relieving, not soothing, just painfully hard. It wasn’t a loud cry; it wasn’t a sad one either.

It was a heartbreak cry.

The silent one that had no start and no end, the one that struck you so hard and so quickly sometimes you didn’t even notice.

The one that hit you at two in the morning while staring at the ceiling and pointing the things you hate about yourself. The one with low, contained sobs in the shower. The tears you dry away efficiently before anyone could notice something was even there.

The one that could drown you.

He cried, while cleaning away the glass and tossing the broken frame. He cried, while bandaging his own hand and leaving Damen and Auguste’s picture on the desk.

He cried while going back to his own room and opening the bottom drawer of his nightstand. He cried when he put inside the music box, he cried as he said goodbye to Eloise, his beloved violin that had been destroyed.

He cried while he locked them inside, along with his own words, his notes and his emotions. The memories, the kisses, the songs.

Sliding back into his bed, he held his wounded hand to his own chest and closed his eyes, letting the tears slid down his face and onto his pillow. He pulled the duvet over him and focused on blocking everything away from his mind.

He wouldn’t let this happen again. Ever.

Even if he had to change, even if he had to become someone he truly wasn’t, he had to.

The dictionary defines the word _brokenhearted_ as overcome with grief and despair, filled with great sadness especially because someone you love has left you.

But then, he realized that the one who had left was him.

 

 

***

Music.

The first thing he was aware of was music. A soft and upbeat melody reaching his ears before he could even realize he was back to the real world. He made a soft sound and blinked his eyes open slowly, avoiding the sunlight entering from the window, seeping through the curtains of Damen’s bedroom.

As he woke up, he regained sense of his still sore body. The places where Damen had touched him stung, in a good way. He thought that if he focused enough, he would be able to count them. All the kisses, all the love marks that were invisible to anyone but himself; Damen’s affectionate caresses were light spots that illuminated his whole being.

He moved his fingers, his violinist fingers, the ones that had lost their way in Damen’s curls, the ones that had held him close, the closest, until they were one. He found his lips, swollen and bitten, still tasting of his lover.

Every single part of him felt different after Damen had touched him. After he had ran a thumb across every sensitive spot, after he had kissed every centimeter of his fair skin. They had connected in more than one way, and for the moment they had been together, the rest of the world stopped. Their minds left together, their bodies fit into each other perfectly.

It had been…so beautiful.

_We made love. Last night, we made love._

His eyes adjusted to the light, and he was able to see his surroundings. He noticed the details that any other day he would have ignored, like the pile of poetry books on the nightstand along with his empty glass of water and Damen’s reading glasses. He noticed the way the curtain moved along with the wind, gently, bringing him memories of past springs.

And Damen’s bare back, the muscles there tensed in movement. He was sitting next to Laurent with his eyes closed and the clavietta on his lap. His fingers were moving gracefully, contrary to his constant clumsiness, and his sound was rich and well practiced. It had a nice, catchy rhythm, and yet Laurent could feel the melancholy hidden behind. Damen played music with the same dissonance of his personality. He played, not with talent, but with experience and meaning.

It was heart stopping, like a comforting lullaby coming from his heart.

Laurent inhaled and closed his eyes again, capturing that image forever. Moving closer to Damen, he reached over and touched his leg, making circles on his thigh with his index finger.

Damen jerked, letting out a small laugh and interrupting his playing for a few seconds, only to take back control right after. Laurent smiled and rested his hand there, then just listened to him play.

He tried to see what Damen wanted him to see; a vast blue sky and the flowing waves of the sea. Cotton shaped clouds and warm summer days. Orange memories of them together, sharing laughter. Reciting poetry under a tree. Going on small adventures to the bookshop or the park. Playing video games after school and holding hands in haunted mansions.

It was them.

Damen and Laurent, if they were a song. If somehow their lives could be merged together and simplified. If their sad story was not sad, but joyful.

If their _étude_ was a music box.

Tears were looming in his eyes and his violinist heart squeezed and expanded. How long had Damen been practicing?

How did it happen?

How was it that…with every passing second, Laurent loved him more?

It couldn’t be possible. That he was able to love Damen with a broken heart. That it seemed Laurent loved him with every single shattered piece of it, multiplied by a hundred.

_I will die of the desire to tell you that I love you._

As the song came to an end, Damen opened his eyes and looked down at him, “Well, hello.”

Smiling, Laurent said, softly, “Hello, lover.”

Damen reached over and kissed his head, “Did you sleep well?”

Laurent nodded and sat up, “I did.” He could feel his hair a complete tangled mess and he knew he was right when Damen’s eyes followed him and laughed, “You should see yours,” he said.

Shrugging but still smiling, “Mine is always a mess.”

“True,” Laurent agreed and then pecked his lips, “I liked your song.”

Damen’s eyes widened in surprise, and he flushed, but didn’t look away. He held Laurent closer, “You did?”

“It sounds…like a music box,” He whispered.

“I,” Damen started, and then looked down, like looking for words, “I like the clavietta. It’s easy to play.”

“You like playing?” Laurent asked and smiled.

“I do. Very much. I just wish I was better at it.”

“It takes practice, but you’ve improved a lot since the last time.”

“Really?”

Laurent nodded, “It’s lovely.” And then, a little shyly, “Did you write it yourself?”

“Of course,” Damen smiled, “It’s for you.”

It did it again. His heart, the squeezing and expanding. Suddenly he forgot how to breathe and how to speak, “I love it,” he managed.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

Laurent watched as Damen’s eyes lit up, irradiating sparkles, and he thought he had never seen anything as beautiful.

Maybe it was because the spell of the night before, or maybe it had been Damen’s song to inspire him, but he wanted to make music. He wanted to play.

He wanted to play with Damen.

So, he asked, “Do you have Auguste’s ukulele here?”

 

 

***

Damen couldn’t look away.

It was physically impossible, his eyes were attached to the image of Laurent, half sitting, half lying on his bed, wearing his shirt and playing the ukulele with his hair a mess. He looked like an angel.

With his golden locks and his blue eyes and soft voice. Fingers moving on the strings trying to find a sound. Lips parted slightly, his gaze distant. He was thinking – he wasn’t there.

Last night had been a dream he never wanted to be over. It had been…so different, entirely different from any other experience in his life. It wasn’t dominance nor was it just physical pleasure.

It was a connection. Like the ones Auguste used to talk about. For the night, they had been one. All of their walls down, there was nothing they could hide from the other. Their past was there, their lies and their truths and all the times they hurt each other. All the times they helped each other, too. All the smiles, all the glances, the first kisses, the goodbyes. Everything was there. Even the four interminable years where they lost contact.

The years of forgetting, and regretting, and missing.

Damen let Laurent see everything; all of his insecurities, all of his pessimistic thoughts and constant existentialist worries. His sadness. The ugly things he never spoke out loud but that were there. The fights with Kastor, the doctor’s appointments with his father, Nicaise’s abuse, Laurent’s well-being, Auguste’s death, his career, his confused heart.

He gave Laurent everything, and everything he got.

Laurent had let him into every space and corner of his universe. He let Damen into his undying grief, his self-destructive thoughts, the world of his nightmares and the realm of his most private thoughts.

Nothing could be compared to that.

And more importantly, because they had reached this chapter in their story. The chapter where the question changed.

_If I loved you, would you love me back?_

Because after everything that had happened, they were both afraid. Afraid of loving one another; they had learnt the hard way that it hurt.

Laurent’s voice took him away from his thoughts, “Where are you?”

Damen turned his attention to him, “With you,” he said, which was entirely true since his thoughts couldn’t divert from him at all, “Always with you.”

_Always with you._

He saw Laurent flush, his fair skin turning red in an instant. Damen was left expecting a witty remark that never came. Instead, Laurent started to play and asked, “Do you know this song?”

Damen replied, “Who doesn’t?”

It had been a surprise that Laurent had asked him about Auguste’s ukulele, more when Damen didn’t know it was an instrument he could play. He was even more impressed when he watched Laurent’s fingers move on the strings, like he did on his violin. And the song he was playing…

Laurent was going to kill him.

Just as he thought that, Laurent started to sing. Quietly, shyly, but hitting the notes perfectly, “Quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose.”

Not knowing the lyrics in French, Damen sang the next verse in English, “When you kiss me heaven sighs and though I close my eyes, I see _la vie en rose_.”

Laurent grinned at him and continued playing, “Il est entré dans mon cœur, une part de bonheur dont je connais la cause.”

“And when you speak, angels sing from above, everyday words seem to turn into love songs.”

“Et dès que je l'aperçois, alors je sens en moi mon cœur qui bat.”

Finishing with one last chord, Laurent rested his hand on the ukulele and said, “You don’t know the lyrics in french?”

He rubbed his neck, “Not really…it’s catchier in English, in my opinion.”

Laurent looked offended, “How dare you,” and then, “Edith Piaf is judging you from the grave.”

“Along with Scribain and Horowitz, right?”

“I’m surprised you remember their names.” Laurent said, “That was like…seventeen chapters ago.”

That made him laugh. Damen leaned over to kiss his cheek, “I have to admit the French lyrics are prettier.”

“Glad we agree,” Laurent nodded.

“Your voice is very pretty too.”

“And we’re back to disagreeing.”

“I…didn’t know you could play the ukulele,” Damen admitted. “I knew Auguste played various instruments but I didn’t know you did too.”

Laurent shrugged, “Not often, not…seriously. I think it was my dad who taught me to play….I can’t really remember anymore,” he frowned, “I can play this, and the guitar too. A little. I haven’t used mine in years, though.”

“Well,” Damen said, “We should make another impromptu duet session again sometime.”

Laurent laughed. The world got brighter. “Learn the French lyrics next time.”

“Oh, I will,” Damen assured him, “How’s your Greek, by the way?”

“Certainly better than your French.”

“That was low.”

“Could do better, I know.” Laurent sighed, dramatically.

Damen imitated him, “What a long sigh. Are you in love?”

“Not at all.” Laurent replied, “Are you?”

“Certainly not.” Damen said, “In fact, I hate you. What are you doing in my house?”

“I came to water your plants.”

“My plants are plastic.”

“Suddenly I don’t know a Damen anymore.”

And after exchanging a playful glance, they laughed.

 

_If I loved you, Laurent, would you love me back?_

 

 

***

December had come and gone before he noticed.

Mostly, he supposed, it was because of the fact that he had tried to keep himself as busy as he could. Once he was done with school, he had focused a large part of his time helping Nicaise with his song for the Royal. Even after Victoria was gone to spend the holidays at her parents’, he and Nicaise had spent full days and nights practicing.

Surprisingly, the little brat hadn’t protested. He was the one pushing Laurent to stay up until two or three in the morning, until he couldn’t move his fingers anymore or he broke one of the violin’s strings.

Some nights, when they were both sick of the song, Rachmaminoff’s, they would improvise. It was fun, and it eased the tension. And it calmed them both enough so that they ended up passing out in random places around the living room, only for Damen to find them hours later in the morning and throwing blankets over them.

However.

The fun, inevitably, came to an end when Nicaise had to leave town with his father. Apparently it was tradition to go visit his grandparents over Christmas. And even though he had assured both Damen and Laurent his dad wasn’t likely to try anything while they were there, it was still hard to see him go.

Laurent swore to God that if he came back with any other bruise, he would kill that man.

With Nicaise gone, he spent his days either catching up with books he had been too distressed to read, composing (or trying to) songs he’d never show another human being while he lived, or with Damen, whenever he was free.

He had troubles with his dad, who apparently had some serious back problems that could need surgery, and of course, the useless trash of his bastard brother Kastor.

And even though Laurent wished to help, somehow, he didn’t know what he should say or do. And Damen didn’t tell him either.

And then, suddenly, one morning it was Auguste’s birthday –a day he didn’t remember much of, actually. His memories were a blur—then, Christmas, and then New Year’s, which had ended in slow rocking and open-mouthed kisses in Damen’s apartment.

Now it was January.

The starting of another year, a new one his brother wouldn’t see.

He felt strange – like, he was leaving Auguste behind. But the more he thought about it, the more he understood there was no way for him to catch up.

No…he was dead.

He told himself that every day, now. Every morning, his first thought was that truth.

_Auguste, you’re dead._

He didn’t know whether it was a good or bad thing. He didn’t know, because some days he’d get up from bed and start his daily routine like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t his brother who was dead.

And then…some other days, he couldn’t.

He couldn’t get up, no matter how much he tried. And the tears wouldn’t stop. And he thought he wouldn’t survive the pain of missing him as much as he did.

Sometimes, during those days, in his weak state of mind, he’d wish he was dead too.

But he could cut all of the flowers of his garden, and yet spring will come, like Victoria had said. Because, as painful as it was, their lives will continue to move on even with him gone.

Because even when Laurent protested against it all, the unfairness of his death, still spring would come.

Today, Laurent got up from bed.

It was Nicaise’s second round in the Royal. This time, they would pick the best twenty out of fifty violinists. The third round would be the top ten, and then finally, the fourth one was the final.

It was early in the morning, and the auditorium in Arles Hall smelled of polished wood and a mix of perfume and flowers – bouquets specifically picked for the finalists. People were already claiming their seats, and the judges had just arrived to their table. It was noticeable, the change in the public. There were more people than they were in the past round, which was a bit oxymoron considering the contestants were less than last time.

But that’s how it was in the musical world. When you were good, people wanted to see you. Give out limbs to hear you play. But if you’re not remarkable, you get forgotten pretty quickly. It was as sad as it was true. The cruelty of reality. Something young musicians had to learn the hard way from a very young age.

It could easily discourage someone, and perhaps that was the idea. People who couldn’t survive the possible stages of humiliation, constant rejection, recrimination and lack of motivation then definitely couldn’t make it in this business. Sort of like a filter.

And especially in such a tough competition as the Royal, where the judges were ex orchestra directors, famous composers, concert violinists and professional musicians, it wasn’t enough to practice. It wasn’t enough being the best. Music was tricky like that. You had to be the best, believe it and prove it.

Always surpassing yourself, trying to elevate your own abilities while the spotlight was in you. Oblige them to watch you, to listen to you. Tell the world who you are. Prove you have the right to be on that stage, prove you have the soul of the musician you say you have.

If you want to be a musician, prove it.

If you want to play, prove it.

What makes you special, different from the rest?

How much are you willing to give up?

How much are you willing to risk, in exchange of gaining _that_?

Who are you willing to lose?

The music world was solitary. Even though you had music, there were holes it couldn’t fill. People it could never replace. And Auguste made it seem so different.

Maybe that was why he had so many students. Why he was revolutionizing everything. He didn’t believe in that solitude. Quite the opposite, he believed music connected you to people, not take you away from them.

He thought that Nicaise had it too.

Laurent walked backstage, holding his and Damen’s coffee, and almost ran into him, too distracted with his own thoughts to be aware of his…boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

Yes. He thought that was a good word to label it for now.

The word made his stomach fill with butterflies which was disgustingly enough to embarrass himself. He wasn’t fifteen anymore.

_Control yourself._

“We have a problem,” Damen said, inhaling and taking the coffee Laurent was offering him.

“What is it?” Laurent asked.

“We can’t find Nicaise,” he said, and then, “Victoria finished changing and is off trying to find him.”

Looking around for a minute, Laurent quickly checked the corners and dimensions, “Well…there aren’t many places he could be, are there?”

“I already checked the bathrooms, the television rooms, the waiting lounge,” Damen sighed, “He’s supposed to be one of the last ones, so we’ve got some time.”

“I’ll go look for him then,” He knew the backstage pretty well by now. “You stay here in case they change the program.”

Damen nodded and took a sip of his coffee, then with a pleasant sigh, he said, “I really needed this.”

“You’re welcome,” He said, “The café here has always been one of my favorites.”

“You have great taste,” Damen said, and then, in a playful tone, “Do you think your boyfriend would kill me if I asked you out?”

“Of course. He’d throw a spear at you and murder you instantly if you tried.”

“Lovely,” After a pause, “So, are you free tonight?”

Laurent rolled his eyes and shook his head, but couldn’t hide the smile forming on his lips, “Call me if Nicaise shows up.”

Then, he stepped into what was the maze of backstage in the Arles Hall. It was easy to get lost, especially if it was your first time. He remembered a few passages of his childhood and teenage years where he could never find the right door to the bathroom and ended up opening storage closets or useless rooms with tables and chairs no one really used.

By now, though, he was used to it being insanely strange and difficult to understand. Every wall and door looked exactly the same, but the key was actually on the floor. It was colored differently, if one looked closely. Artsy dividing the place in sections.

He walked around and sipped his coffee, until he took a turn and heard voices. He recognized it immediately as Victoria’s.

Both of them, kneeling on the floor, looked up to see him. Victoria stood up, she was wearing the same dress as the day Laurent met her, when Auguste introduced them after her performance. It was her favorite, a red one with off-the-shoulder straps. She looked like an empress, with her golden make up and deep wine lips.

Taking a few steps towards him, she whispered, “He’s not feeling well.”

“Is he sick?” Laurent asked.

“His stomach hurts,” she explained, “I have some medicine in my purse but he can’t move and I didn’t want to leave him.”

“Go. I’ll stay with him.”

She nodded, “I’ll be right back.”

“Victoria,” he called her, quietly. She was already walking away, but turned around to see him. “You look beautiful.”

Victoria smiled. A smile with teeth, big and enchanting, “Thank you.”

Then she left.

Sitting next to Nicaise, he left his empty to-go coffee cup on the floor and rested his back against the wall. He couldn’t think of anything else that wasn’t a generic, obvious question, “Are you okay?”

Nicaise was hugging his knees and had his face buried on his crossed arms. “My stomach hurts.”

“Did you eat this morning?”

Nicaise nodded, “Some toast.”

Toast.

Laurent had a hard time imagining the same kid that had eaten almost a dozen crab cakes with a stomachache because of toast.

Could it be that he was…nervous?

He asked, with the same quiet tone, “Why are you hiding here, Nicaise?”

Looking up from his arms, Nicaise didn’t turn to see him, but rather focused at some point in the wall. With a shy voice Laurent had never heard from him before, he said, “I just…” he swallowed, and for a minute there he looked very nauseated, “It’s never felt like this before…like…like if I’m exposing everything.”

He was talking about the song. He was nervous.

And Laurent knew what he meant. Sometimes, there are songs you can play better than others. Easier than others. You could play one of Chopin’s Nocturnes with enthusiasm, it could mean nothing to you but still you’d play it beautifully, giving it feeling and meaning but nothing that was entirely from your core.

Then, other times, there’s songs that feel so incredibly personal, so intimately intruding that it is hard to play them, especially for others. Because it takes so much of yourself that if you’re not careful enough, you could end up ruining it completely. Because you _feel_ it inside and every note is a punch to the heart.

Whispering, “It’s rough, isn’t it?”

Nicaise nodded, “How do you deal with it?” He asked.

“I don’t,” Laurent said, “I—there are things…things you have to say, lively and brightly. Nicaise, you can’t hide your wounds forever.”

Finally, their eyes met. Blue meeting blue, student and teacher – no, it was more than that. He felt a weird urge, an instinct to reach over and touch his head. Affectionately, he did.

Laurent swallowed, and pushed himself to say what he needed to. The things he knew, what Auguste had taught him all along. “I know it’s overwhelming. I know how it feels – as if your own feelings are going to crush you. And it’s scary to let everyone see what’s inside, it’s terrifying, actually.”

 _“But_ ,” Auguste’s voice said inside his head, “ _Say it, Laurent.”_

“But it’s what we do,” Nicaise said, “Right?”

_We’re musicians, we must play._

_If we don’t, then what happens? You can walk away today, lose the Royal. But those wounds you have inside, Nicaise, those will not leave._

And. And. And.

“Do you like music?” Laurent asked.

Nicaise said, “It’s the only thing about life that I like.”

“Why do you like it?”

Silence.

He tried again, “Nicaise. Nicaise, why do you like it?”

“Because,” he said, and his voice broke a little. A battle was happening inside of him, his heart was fighting. Laurent knew, because he had felt that too. “Because…it’s the only thing that makes me _feel alive_.”

“Then, why are you afraid?”

“I want to win,” Nicaise said, tears popping in the corners of his eyes. He gritted his teeth and blinked them away, “It’s my only chance of getting out of here.”

“Get out of here?”

“Don’t you know?” Nicaise looked at him incredulously, tears running down his face, but he didn’t sound sad, just angry. “I thought you would have figured it out by now.”

Frowning, “Figure out what?”

And then, suddenly, like a completed puzzle, the final piece clicked in place.

Why Nicaise had showed up at his door, demanding classes.

Why he wanted to win _so fucking badly_.

Why he was afraid. Why his stomach hurt.

Why he reminded Laurent so much of himself.

The Royal gave scholarships to those who won, usually to study music abroad.

Nicaise wanted to run away.

 

 

***

Nicaise didn’t say another word.

A small muttered ‘thanks’ when Victoria gave him the medicine and a cup of chamomile tea. Laurent didn’t insist him, either. No one did, probably knowing Nicaise would only snap at them and being stressed before a competition wasn’t a good thing at all. He rested with his head on Victoria’s shoulder and his eyes closed until it was his turn.

Damen, as always, broke the awkward silence that stood between the four of them, “Well, good luck, kid.”

Nicaise hissed, “I’m not a kid.”

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Damen chuckled and stepped away before Nicaise could kick him.

“Whenever you are ready,” Victoria said and smiled.

Grabbing his violin out of his case, Nicaise took a deep breath, then nodded. For a fraction of a second, Laurent saw them move towards the stage. He stopped them, however, as they announced Nicaise’s name.

“Wait,” he said, tugging on his arm.

Nicaise looked at him. He looked older in his suit, more mature. Staring back into his eyes, Laurent said, “Don’t make me regret teaching you.” Laurent saw Damen , who was watching the exchange from a safe distance, recoil in his peripheral vision, but ignored it.

Nicaise was undisturbed, then, giving him a grin full of mischief, “I will make you regret leaving the stage, for I will take your place.”

“Prove it.”

“Sit down and watch.”

With that, he walked away and followed Victoria to the stage. Both of them bowed and took their places. The auditorium fell quiet, and Laurent felt his stomach flip painfully as he waited for them to start. Damen slided his hand in his quietly, and Laurent squeezed it rather brusquely.

There was more than one reason why he had chosen that song.

 _Vocalise Op. 34 No. 14_ by Sergei Rachmaninoff, initially meant to be a song for piano and a soprano. He had always hated that the title was disappointing and rather prosaic. _Vocalise_ meant the same thing as _vocalize_ , which is basically to sing without words. But it also meant to give voice to, and _to express something_.  It seemed to be a simple song to play, too. With no major difficulty other than shifting the same chord in its major-minor sound.

That was the trick.

On the contrary of the frivolity it represented at first, it was a challenging song both emotionally and technically. Vaguely melancholic and haunting. It was supposed to sound natural, improvised, like a whisper or a breath. And you cannot tell, at any given moment, whether you are at the beginning of a line, or coming close to the end of one. Usually, with most songs, it was easy to predict when to breathe or change your grip on the bow, but not with _Vocalise_. It felt timeless, endless, and you were never sure of when it was going to end until it did and you were left confused and holding your breath. The skill of the composer is tricking you into thinking that you are listening to something very simple, when it reality it could be perhaps one of his most complex works.

How could you represent that, in music, without making it sound fake?

It was a hard song for Nicaise, he knew that. He was used to rapid, quick-changing melodies, and he was good at them. This one was slow, calm, and soft with moments of rest, representing moments of tranquil anguish.  It was hard, because he had to allow himself to feel things he normally avoided, but if he wanted to win, he had to amplify his repertoire.

Of course, picking _Vocalise_ had been a risk, too. If Nicaise played incorrectly, half-heartedly, he would most likely be disqualified. Laurent knew that, too.

It had been a hard choice, but hearing him play now made him believed that he had been assertive this time.

Victoria had started first, leading the tempo. Nicaise followed in perfect sync, and Laurent felt his heart flutter inside his chest.

Fuck. He had made him nervous too.

The first part of the song felt like agitation, ending with a sort of question, or at least a complaint, in Nicaise’s case.

_You’re going too fast._

He was complaining, he was in pain. And it only grew into frustration and insistence. Insistence for them to _listen_.

 _Vocalize your pain_ , he thought, _Show everyone life’s purest, rawest form. Make something worth out of it._

“Jesus,” Damen whispered by his side. He squeezed Laurent’s hand and passed the other one over his face.

It was too much. Too much for one person. Too much for someone as young as Nicaise. His face was impassive, his back was tense, but he moved the bow with grace. He played like he wasn’t broken inside. Like if the story he was telling wasn’t sad in the slightest, like it wasn’t his.

He played like he didn’t feel anything at all.

And yet.

His violin was screaming in pure agony. Asking for help. Asking them to _listen_. Like the first time they had met. That was all Nicaise had asked.

_“Let me play for you.  I’ll show you I’m worthy of your time.”_

He felt a shudder down his spine and he was aware of the breath he was holding. Victoria and Nicaise played a monochrome scale, the dark clouds of a world for the people listening to their lament.

The lost cry of a soul who had given up on trying.

As the song ended, he wondered then, if Auguste had been the first person to listen to all of them.

 

 

***

“I can’t believe,” Nicaise complained, as he took a glazed donut to his mouth, “That I lost to fucking Strauss' _Voices of Spring_.”

“Second place on the chart is still pretty impressive,” Damen said, licking chocolate off his thumb.

With his usual monotonous tone, Laurent said, “Mediocre,” and stole what was left of Damen’s donut, “That girl did a better job than you.”

“Maybe you should teach her instead,” Damen suggested.

“Maybe.”

“Oh my fucking God,” Nicaise rolled his eyes, “It’s only because she picked a famous song and no one really knew mine.”

“Okay,” Laurent said, “First, the judges knew which are the only ones that matter. And second, she got first place because she played perfectly and you fucked up the coda like I told you not to a thousand times.”

Truth be told, Laurent thought the girl did deserve the first place. Her performance had been flawless, rich and mature. He already knew her name, for he had seen her in a previous competition. Her name was all over the music world, as the new promise of violin. _Odette de León._

She’d make a good rival for Nicaise.

Maybe, if he had a rival, he’d improve his own technique.

“I don’t like slow songs!”

“I don’t like fourteen years old brats sitting on my table and yet there you are.”

“Ugh,” Nicaise crossed his arms over his chest and rested his back against the chair, “I don’t know how Damen can stand you every day.”

“Years of practice,” Damen shrugged, “And a lot of praying.”

“I should have stayed with Victoria,” Nicaise mumbled under his breath.

“She had to go to a class,” Laurent replied, “And you have afternoon classes too.”

Nicaise groaned, “You’re so fucking annoying.”

Chuckling, Damen said, “Come on, I’ll drive you.”

“Let him take the bus. It won’t harm him.”

Nicaise flipped him off, and Laurent laughed. It was so funny to tease him. Maybe he could understand Auguste now. It was tremendously entertaining to annoy…

A little brother.

He stopped laughing, and his heart made a dangerous flip. There was the sound of the doorbell ringing, and he watched Damen get up and walk to the foyer.

His small trance, however, was broken by the sight of a paw across the table. Quickly, his senses reacting all at the same time, he took away the box of donuts, “No, Vivi.”

“Can cats eat donuts?” Nicaise asked.

“They can’t,” Laurent said, still staring at Vivi, who returned the gaze with pleading eyes and meowing. “I said no.”

Vivaldi moved, trying to reach the box again, but seeing it was useless to fight his owner, he opted to steal Nicaise’s instead, reaching over and taking it in one bite.

“Vivaldi!” they said, at the same time.

He fled, still carrying half of the donut in his mouth and settled on a far-off corner to eat it. Laurent was about to scold him when Damen came back, his face unreadable.

“Laurent,” he said, but Laurent couldn’t read the tone, either. “They want to talk to you.”

His confusion lasted about a minute, the exact time it took him to move from the kitchen to the door.

A man was waiting, and greeted him with an unfriendly face. He looked down at a small chart in his hands and asked, in a bored tone, “Laurent de Vere?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Ian, I’m from PianoMart, we're scheduled to collect your piano today.”

Suddenly, his world was moving.

“There must have been a mistake,” he said, “I haven’t sold any piano.”

Ian looked at him like he didn’t have time for this, “Did you sell a black Steinway & Sons in mint condition?”

“I _didn’t_ sell it.”

The man sighed, “Look, kid, I don’t have time for this. It is said here that you already got the money transferred. You should have gotten an e-mail notification a few weeks ago.”

A few weeks ago.

It...couldn’t be possible.

It couldn’t be.

He...he had changed his mind.

“I didn’t,” he said, but he hadn’t checked his e-mails in weeks. “I want to cancel it.”

“My job is just take the instrument to the person you sold it to. If you have wanted to cancel it you should have done it before they transferred the money.”

_No._

_No._

_No._

_No._

“Give me a minute, please.”

Ian sighed but nodded and turned around to talk to some other guy inside the truck. _A truck._ They were taking Auguste’s piano away.

With shaky hands, he took his phone out of his pocket and opened the e-mail app. He kept cursing and refreshing until they finally popped up. And there it was, a notification, sent in December.

Someone had been interested in his brother’s piano, and had bought it. The customer had asked for it to be shipped after the holidays, and had transferred the forty thousand dollars of it’s worth, plus the expenses for the truck.

He swallowed, and he thought he was going to throw up.

Pressing into their profile, Laurent tried to call them. He tried a total of seventeen times until someone answered. He didn’t care to find out who they were or where they lived or any possible useful information he could have gained from that call.

He couldn’t think.

He explained the situation briefly, only for them to say, in an annoyed voice, “Well, I’m sorry, but the ad had been on the site for months now.”

“I’ll give you a refund,” he said, and didn’t recognize his own voice.

“I don’t want a refund.”

“Laurent?”

He turned around.

For a moment, he had forgotten Damen and Nicaise were at his home. And both of them were staring at him, questions in their eyes.

He didn’t have any answer for either.

Hanging up, he found Damen’s eyes first. They were sad, and yet comprehensive. He seemed to understand when Laurent shook his head.

There was nothing he could do that didn’t involve taking legal actions on him for scamming over the Internet.

There was nothing he could do.

They were taking Auguste’s piano away, just as he wanted.

Just as he had wished for.

“Laurent,” Nicaise said, again. He watched the men go into the house, and Damen showed them to the studio where they started to move the piano. “Laurent, what are they doing?”

He didn’t reply.

“Where are they taking his piano?”

He couldn’t.

“I sold it,” he whispered, and it was the truth. It burnt his throat like acid and killed every small trace left of the person he once was.

The brother he once was.

Nicaise looked at him, with his big blue eyes. Something inside of Laurent agonized in pain, for it was the same expression of the Nicaise of his nightmares. The one floating dead in the pond.

Suddenly, he felt his world collapsing around him.  

“Nicaise—” he tried, but Nicaise started to shake his head.

“No.”

“I didn’t—”

Nicaise spat, “I hate you.” and then, louder, as he pushed Laurent against the wall, “I hate you!”

_I hate you._

He watched Nicaise run away from him, as he then watched Damen chase after him and calling his name.

And he watched, alone, standing at the door of his parents house, how they put Auguste’s piano in the truck, and drove away.

How do you fix a broken heart?

The dictionary defines the word _brokenhearted_ as overcome with grief and despair, filled with great sadness especially because someone you love has left you. Synonyms: inconsolable, disconsolate, saddened, wretched, unhappy, _miserable_.

It was a very curious definition, especially because the reason or main cause to someone’s sorrow was as simple as the mere, mundane act of a person leaving.

But then again, perhaps, it was even more curious how he never tried to stop them. He just let them go, all of them.

Damen. Nicaise. Jord.

Auguste.

He put his heart inside a truck and sold it to a stranger for money.

What had he done?

The last thing he had from his brother, maybe the most precious, now belonged to someone that wasn’t him.

Again, he had failed.

He had fucked up.

He stood by the door long while after they were gone. He stood there, because he didn’t know if he could move.

_What have I done?_


	25. B-side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys  
> I must say I had planned this chapter from the beginning of this story. And to have reached this point in my chronology is something I never thought would happen when I first posted Chapter 1. So I'm really proud and happy, even though this was probably the hardest part of Étude to write.  
> Thanks a whole fucking lot to Ellen, my beta. God, what would I do without you? And Kelly, my dear, being your friend has been truly the best.  
> Thanks to all of you who take the time to read my words even though I continue to break your hearts.  
> I'm not going to say enjoy it, because perhaps is not something to enjoy. There'll be a box of Kleenex waiting for you at the comments section.

_ Dear brother, _

_ When we were children, I made you a promise. In fact, I suppose it’s fair to say that throughout all of our lives, Laurent, you and I, we’ve made plenty of promises to each other. We used to swear in the name of the King, with our hands on your plastic crown. Do you remember that? You’ve always liked those stories. Stories of Royalty and war, Princes and Castles and ballrooms. Galloping horses and allies forces, with loyal guards and a romantic arc. _

_ In another life, little brother, I’m sure you were a Prince. In another world, one inside the pages of the books you like to read. _

_ When you were born, Laurent, I swore to protect you with my life. I swore I’d keep you safe and happy. But then, in the end—I failed. The years we spent with uncle, the years that he spent abusing you, no matter how hard I tried to keep him away from you – I’m sorry. _

_ You asked me once, to promise you that we’d play music together forever. That we’d never stop. _

_ For a while, I had avoided writing this letter to you. For a while, I thought I wouldn’t have to. In the end, I was wrong. _

_ If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. _

_ I broke my promise. _

_ I hope that by the time you open this, my last few words to you, it’s not too late. _

 

 

***

Blood.

Thick, warm and scarlet.

Auguste knew something was wrong when the nosebleeds started.  

In reality, it wasn’t the nosebleed itself that set up an alarm in his head, but the fact that never in his whole life had he had one. He had always been a healthy person, from the beginning of his twenty-three years of life until the day the big downfall began. Auguste was, or had been, the kind of person to be immune to the seasonal viruses, never falling sick in bed for more than a day maximum; on the rare occurrences he happened to catch a cold. He had never broken a bone; the closest had been twisting his ankle while playing soccer with Damen and Nikandros. The last time he had tonsillitis he was three years old, and the last time he had thrown up was some point in his childhood due to indigestion.

Laurent, on the other hand, got sick a lot during winter. Usually, the change of seasons affected him. Or at least it did while they were growing up. He had become stronger as a teenager, and even so would fall with a fever every now and then.

So, it was certainly unexpected and rather strange when Auguste felt the liquid smearing down his nose in the middle of his class, even more when there was nothing that could have caused it.

Or so he thought.

The second time it happened had been while making dinner, and the third time before leaving his house in the morning. The fourth time was as soon as he woke up, and the blood that stained his sheets had been almost impossible to wash off.  All of them had been quick, like if he had been hit on the nose by some invisible force.

The fifth time, however, the blood wouldn’t stop.

He was sitting at the piano, practicing for his next competition. Chopin’s  _ Ballade No. 1 in G minor _ was one of his favorites. It wasn’t the happy, upbeat melody he was used to perform but rather a dark shade in his own repertoire. He liked it because it was a musical representation of his deepest emotions, his secret sides. Like a B side.

Auguste’s B side.

The things he never told anyone, not even Laurent. Much less Laurent. He didn’t want to make disturb him; his little brother already had many worries of his own. Fights with the music and the people he loved, and the fact that he didn’t realize he loved them. Even though for Auguste it was pretty obvious to see. Perhaps because he knew him too well, crystalline like a drop of water.

He didn’t tell Laurent about the nosebleeds, or the headaches that sometimes came with them. The passing dizziness that clouded his mind for a few minutes, the bruises appearing all over his body and he couldn’t remember how  _ the hell _ he had gotten them.

No, those things Auguste didn’t say. He thought that perhaps if he didn’t voice them, they’ll disappear. Which was—very much he knew—stupid, irrational, also kind of dangerous. However, even knowing that and believing in it, he still couldn’t bring himself to tell him.

What if it was nothing at all?  _ Just stress _ , he thought.

Stress, for the competition, for Laurent entering college and the engagement with Victoria. The fact that he had thought in perhaps changing his career – becoming a teacher instead. Although he loved composing.

It was all, at that point in his life, stupid and irrational and maybe kind of dangerous.

Damen was gone.

And he needed him. Auguste felt, for the first time in almost three years of having graduated, the acute longing to be once more with his best friend. The things he couldn’t tell Laurent – he could tell Damen. The weird thoughts he couldn’t comprehend himself, Damen could.

It was how they worked. Putting each other lives into perspective when the other couldn’t. Helping and trusting and talking. Playing soccer and trying to outdo each other in P.E. and laughing.

Laughing.

Auguste stopped playing the piano as he noticed the small drops of blood falling on the white keys. It was a gruesome image, one he thought he’d never forget and would become part of his hidden nightmares. The side B. He took a hand to his face and stared at his red fingers before his mind caught up and he ran upstairs and to the bathroom.

He locked the door after him, his hand bloody red sliding on the doorknob. Then, he shoved tissues into his nose and ran the shower.

And the blood wouldn’t stop.

After wasting a whole box of Kleenex, he opted to use a towel. Eventually, after dyeing it almost completely red, the blood stopped. He felt dizzy and tired. The steam from the shower was making his hair stick to his face. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, how long he had been sitting on the toilet seat panicking and trying not to choke on his own blood. His mouth had that metallic flavor that made his stomach twist and for a minute he thought he would gag.

When he felt his nose was fine again, he stood up and threw the bloody towel in the sink, wringing it out. He stripped down, hid the towel between his clothes, and then got into the shower this time.

The hot water and simple, mindless, task of washing his hair calmed him down. He cleaned his face and washed out his mouth.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong, but he didn’t have a clue what it was.

Five nosebleeds in two weeks were too much, and it seemed they were getting worse.

He stepped out the shower was wrapping a clean towel around his waist when there was a knock on the door and the muffled sound of Laurent’s voice crashed into his world and took him out of thoughts, bringing back the anxiety from before.

He couldn’t know.

Laurent couldn’t know.

“Auguste?” he called, “Are you alright?”

Auguste made his lips curve into a smile, trying to imitate one of his genuine ones –oxymoron, yes--, and opened the door, “Do you need the bathroom?”

Laurent looked at him, or well, scrutinized him like he liked to do. He had his arms crossed over his chest and very directly asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just took a shower,” Auguste said.

Raising his eyebrows, “For over an hour?”

He shrugged, “I was thinking and lost track of time.”

“Right.”

There was a silence in which both of them felt the weight of the lie between them and what it meant. The fact that Auguste never really lied, not to Laurent. There were things he didn’t tell him, yes, but that didn’t mean he lied to his face. And if Laurent was ever to ask for his secrets directly, he’d probably tell.       

But this…

He didn’t know what this was.

He just knew this was a lie he had to keep to himself, at least until he went to the doctor himself. Maybe after the competition, he would.

Finally, Laurent broke the silence and in a low, yet annoyed voice, he said, “You don’t look okay.”

“I’m just tired,” Auguste whispered, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “Like someone I know who needs a bath and a nap.”

Laurent gave him a look and took his hand away, “I’m not a child. Plus, I’m studying for my midterms.”

“It’s late,” Probably around eleven by now.

“You stopped playing the piano so abruptly,” Laurent said, ignoring his comment, “I…got worried.”

Auguste smiled, genuinely this time, “Chopin can get frustrating at times, you know?”

“I know, and very well, but,” Laurent paused, looking for words, “It’s not like you to stop, even when it’s frustrating.”

He sighed, “I’m just really tired,” And he was, exhausted. “The competition’s soon and—“

“You need to take a break,” said Laurent, “You can’t keep balancing piano concurs and school and the wedding, all on your own.”

Ready to protest, Auguste started, “But—“

Raising his voice a little, which was unusual, “No, Auguste.” And then, “You’re more important than a pointless concur.”

With no chance to protest, Auguste gave out a small sigh and said, in a quiet, honest voice, “You’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Laurent said, in the same tone of voice.

Maybe he was, after all, just pushing himself too hard. Maybe he just needed a break, to relax.

Or so he thought.

“After this competition,” Auguste said, “I’ll take a break.”

To his surprise, Laurent’s reaction was rather shy and childish, a reflection of the kid he had been. The little brother Auguste had sworn to protect, “Promise me.”

Auguste smiled, and then held out his pinky finger, “I promise. It’ll be my last one.”

He didn’t it mean it that way.

He had not meant it that way.

Laurent took his pinky finger in his and after a few seconds, came back to himself. He dropped his hand, “Well, can I use the bathroom now? I want to take a bath.”

And everything seemed normal.

Or so he thought.

 

 

***

In reality, the hardest part of playing Chopin’s Ballade wasn’t the technical difficulty. It was true that it was somewhat enduring and challenging, even for the very experienced pianist. But the real struggle, at the moment of sitting down on the piano and trying to reincarnate the piece, was without a doubt the poetic interpretation. Usually, a musician could master the technique perfectly and still have troubles with the hidden meaning of the piece. 

It wasn’t enough to just play it over and over again like a machine. You needed to give it a soul. And so, to do that, you had to sacrifice a part of yourself. Grab something from your insides, from the deepest, darkest part of your being. The thing that you’re most ashamed of, that ugly mark that you’ve never let anyone see.

You grab that, and that’s your ballade.

Chopin’s Ballades need a motif. Not only technically, as they indeed had one, but also emotionally. They are entirely abstract and dramatic. Poetic and tragic. Like a tragicomedy. Your interpretation of the song was entirely subjective, even when playing it exactly like in the score.

It sounded different depending on who was playing and what they wanted to say. He knew Laurent played it on his violin trying to evoke the same sentiment of Marguerite Gautier in  _ The Lady of the Camelias _ , during the black pas de deux of her imminent death. He knew of classmates whose interpretations were entirely existentialistic, and others who lacked of the proper emotion and only played it superficially.

He knew of those who couldn’t play it because it was too much for them.

For Auguste, however, it had been quite easy to understand. After all, it was his favorite piece to both listen and play.

He was fourteen years old and a freshman in Charcy when he first listened to it, after his parents’ death. He remembered well, because the notes had managed to stop his heart dead. It was as if everything that was wrong, everything that was mean and hurtful and that made him upset were in that song, resounding on the halls, reaching his ears and his soul.

All the pain and the struggle and sadness were inside the melody.

By mere casualty he happened to be there just when Professor Guillaume was playing the piano. Auguste had supposed he must of played an instrument, but at the time he wasn’t sure what it was until he saw him. And then it was pretty obvious.

Of course it had to be the piano.

He played with the velocity and confidence of a concert pianist. Neat technique. It was rare that he played in school – he never did when directing the Orchestra.

And for the first time since his parents had died, he felt it. The unmasked need of finding someone who was like him. Someone who felt like him.

Near the ending of his interpretation, Professor Guillaume had seen him by the door, but didn’t stop until the coda. Auguste remembered bursting out crying and the stunned expression on his teacher’s face before petting his head affectionately, comfortingly – something his father would have done. He remembered his ugly sobs and how he tried to contain them as Professor Guillaume passed him a box of Kleenex, and how that made him laugh in the middle of his despair.

And he remembered the words that came after, in that confidential tone of voice that he continued to use for the rest of his high school years when trying to teach him something special and different from the rest of his classmates.

_ “We play for the ones we’ve lost, the ones we miss, and those that we want them to stay. We play because we love them, even though it’s painful. Because it’s even more painful when we don’t. Music heals even the deepest wounds, the ones we think we’ll never recover from. And it’s the one thing that can fight against death, because it stays even after the composer is long gone. Your parents are gone, but their melodies inside of you, that stays. You see, Auguste, it’s a connection.” _

He understood then, the importance of reflecting one’s feelings through music. Because right after, he had written his first sonata. And then an étude. And he decided that he would make music to  _ heal _ . To fight against all those things that he hated, the unfairness and the grief.

_ Ballade No. 1 in G minor _ was, in spite of its dark, twisted undertone, a song for healing.

Conveying all of your worries and fears in a song you could control, a song you could play. You give them life and power for the whole length of the piece, and then they were out of you. By the end of it, you feel free.

It’s a song for expressing what you don’t want to express, or the things you’re afraid to reveal. It’s a song for letting go.

Auguste bowed to the public and sat on the piano bench. Suddenly, he was aware of everything in the auditorium. He was aware of the stunning light of the stage, the graveyard-like silence of the public as they waited for him to begin as well as the movement of the judges’ hands writing his name on a white sheet of paper.

These were things he usually didn’t notice. Honestly, they didn’t matter. But he was already uneasy. For days, and especially today, he had been uneasy. Just not feeling quite well. But not incredibly bad, either.

The nosebleeds had stopped, and right after he had a fever. So he thought that perhaps it had been just stress, after all.

But now…

He took a breath and placed his hands on the piano. Starting on the notes, he set the tempo a pace slower than what the score recited, just because he liked it more that way. If you rushed through, you couldn’t listen to the magnificence of it all. The finest work of Chopin as a composer.

The most beautiful, the one that felt most real.

He started,  _ lento _ ,  _ pesante _ .

This was his B side.

The concert pianist, his stage persona. The song was coming alive through his fingers; it was resounding like the echoes of a drop in the water.

He was halfway through the second section of the piece when he realized that he was hurting. His body was hurting. His arms felt heavy, and his head was pounding.

_ What is this? _

When was the last time he had felt okay?

And when did he start to feel like this – sick?

He kept playing, but he couldn’t focus on the song anymore. He could feel his heartbeat accelerating oddly, and he was aware of Laurent and Victoria’s presence backstage, watching his performance.

For a minute there, he had the sensation he was going to fall off the bench. The motion of moving backwards set an alarm on his mind and he straightened his back and tried to shake away the feeling.

He kept playing, he had to, but he wished he could stop. He wasn’t okay.

He wanted to stop, finish already. He didn’t feel okay.

And the realization and acceptance of it was killing him inside. He was preoccupied, worried because he had no idea what was happening to him; the act of finishing the piece, of pushing onto the keyboard the intensity of his feelings was sending waves of pain to his joints.

Maybe he had another fever.

As he finished with the exuberant backwards waltz and the coda, he let out the breath he had been holding and he felt like he was choking.

Then, looking up, he thought, “I made it.”

The last thing he remembered was Laurent’s voice, high-pitched with worry and panic, calling for him, cutting in the echo of applause that felt were a million miles away. His senses came back to him for a few seconds; he wanted to ask his brother what was wrong. But he couldn’t, no. He gave in to the darkness, and he collapsed.

 

 

***

At first, he couldn’t remember.

He felt disconnected, like if he didn’t belong to his own body. His mind couldn’t process any information besides the fact that he was in a hospital bed. Everything smelled of citrus disinfectant, which immediately brought back the memory of vomit, making his stomach twist.

For some reason, he thought like he was supposed to be somewhere else. He thought there was someone he had to see, but he couldn’t remember who or where. He didn’t know if it was real, or if it was part of a dream.

Why was he in a hospital?

Auguste felt too disoriented to even try to move, but he closed his eyes and focused on the last thing he remembered; a spark, like electricity on his fingers. The sound of applause, a voice calling his name. Then, darkness, emptiness.

The Nothing At All.

And then, another voice. Another face. A caress on his head. A forgotten melody, buried in the corners of his conscience.

He was about to give up and fall into the darkness again when the sound of the door being swung open seemed to activate his senses again.

When he saw his face, then he knew. He remembered. The person he needed to see, the place he was supposed to be. His little brother came crashing into the room, barely breathing, and his hands shaking. Laurent looked at him, his chest heaving painfully.

Auguste sat up immediately, opening his arms just in time to catch him. Laurent hugged him tightly, still trying to control his breathing.

It was amazing how easily his mind and body reacted to Laurent’s distress; suddenly forgetting any sight of pain or confusion and instead focusing entirely on the well-being of his little brother. It had always been like that. A habit. Even now, when he was the one sitting on a hospital bed and his psyche was divided in pieces.

Perhaps, he’d never change that. It was too late to even try, at least ten years too late.

Ten years taking care of a shy boy with a heart covered in layers. A boy who was stubborn as a rock and liked to fight him back and yet still ran to him with band-aids each time Auguste cut himself while cooking. A boy with an impressive sweet tooth and could ruin his appetite eating a dozen chocolate chips cookies right before dinner time.

Auguste’s favorite violinist.

He held him until Laurent let go, and then, with a soft laugh, he asked, “So, did I win?”

 

 

***

If Auguste had to choose his least favorite word, he knew exactly which one he’d pick.

It was probably the only word he’d come to hate in his life. The only word that managed to unbalance his very well conserved emotional state.

The word that made him question his entire life, from the moment he was born to the second the doctor opened his mouth and told them, in a resigned breath, “Leukemia.”

_ Leukemia. _

In that precise scene of his story, something inside him ached. Like a dark parasite trying to destroy everything he was. An invisible monster, already too into his own battlefield.

That was cancer.

He half listened to the doctor sitting in front of him asking questions, ( _ “Have you felt strange lately? Tired, weak? Have you noticed anything strange? Any bruising or rashes, recurring nosebleeds?”)  _ While the other half of himself was aware of Laurent and Victoria sitting by his side.

Auguste didn’t want to look at them, at all. He didn’t want to listen anymore. He wanted to go home, take a bath and go to sleep. Pretend this strange nightmare wasn’t real and that he didn’t have a type of cancer already too advanced in his body, in need of immediate treatment.

Not at all.

That single word was the starting of his downfall, only that he didn’t know it by then yet. It was the beginning of the end, the first note of a piece. The overture of a play.

It was the vague feeling of being disconnected from your body, when you’re standing on your two feet and for a moment the picture frame freezes and suddenly you don’t feel like you’re you anymore. And you have a strange introspective narration wondering how you got to that point when there’s no turning back.

When you know that nothing will be the same

And your memories the normal life you had until that day seem so very distant you start to doubt if it was ever like that or just a pleasant dream from another reality. You start to doubt if there was ever a time where everything was so simple.

Auguste passed a hand over the right side of his face, from his hairline to his jaw, leaving it on his right eye. He looked down, his long hair hanging like a curtain.

_ Am I going to die? _

“Fuck,” he whispered.

The only word that somehow seemed to make sense. He never liked to curse, but this time it was out of his lips before he even realized it. In reality, it was more like blurting out a mess of tongue-tied mumbles.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

_ Mom, Dad, what do I do now? _

_ Why did you have to leave me–us alone? _

 

 

***

“Well,” Laurent said, breaking the silence that had reigned in the car from the moment they left the house to the second he parked in the Hospital’s parking lot. “Do I have to open the door for you or something?”

Auguste closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, once, twice. But still, he couldn’t move. He just couldn’t. The sole thought of making any simple action sent waves of fear to his mind, drowning his thoughts and the bit amount of courage he had managed to muster in the morning.

He said, in a very quiet voice, “I don’t want to do this.”

Saying it wouldn’t change anything, he very much knew that. But Laurent’s impatience was growing into frustration and the least he wanted was for his brother to be mad at him now. Laurent had sorts of a complex and yet terrible temper, but today wasn’t a good one for his rebellious outbursts.

There was another silence, before Laurent’s voice cut it like glass, “Tough fucking luck.”

He opened his eyes and stared at his little brother in the driver’s seat. He looked so young and yet so mature. Perhaps he was acting even more mature than Auguste right now and even though he should feel ashamed for it, he didn’t. Somehow, he was almost glad that someone else was taking the adult lead right now, because he couldn’t this time.

Not today. Not now.

He had tried, he was trying, but it was too fucking hard to maintain a normal face when nerves were eating him alive.

In Laurent’s eyes he saw strength and determination, clearly ready to fight and drag Auguste out of the car himself if he had to. There was no mercy or contemplation.

“You’re sick but your legs still work,” Laurent said, opening the door, “You big baby.” And then he practically jumped off the car then slammed the door shut.

_ You big baby. _

The comment was probably supposed to be mean, but instead it made Auguste feel a strange sense of comfort enough to open the door and get out the car as well.

They walked together, side by side, into the hospital and all the way to the oncology ward. They were greeted by a nurse and the same doctor who had given the diagnosis the day Auguste collapsed. After taking his blood and proceeding with other exams, they were taken to the cancer centre.

It was a huge room – people were alone reading books or magazines, watching TV with family, eating, listening to music or simply talking. It was cold, chilling his bones, and as the nurse smiled and prepared his first chemotherapy session, he could only think of the several emergency escape routes he had had seen throughout the building.

He had counted them, even.

It was supposed to last three hours, and he could already feel the effects of the pre-medicaments, lowering his overflowing anxiety. He sat there and took a breath, then stared at the ceiling.

Three hours.

Next to him, Laurent put his bag on the floor and took out a book. It was the one about enemy princes, his favorite. Without a word, he started reading out loud, raising his voice just enough for Auguste to listen.

It was only when Laurent’s voice seemed to get lost for a moment that Auguste realized how much this was affecting him too. He recovered quickly, continuing like nothing had happened after a second of confusion in his voice and a sigh. He was trying hard, his little brother. At some point, it seemed to be too much and he stopped at the end of a chapter, swallowing and digging his nails into his own hands to stop them from shaking.

Maybe if it was anyone else, they’d mistake Laurent’s attitude for rudeness or boredom. But he couldn’t fool Auguste.

Even though his mind wasn’t in the book either, he made an effort too, and asked, “But in the end, he already knows who he is, right? He knows it’s the same man that killed his brother.”

Laurent’s eyes turned to him and he nodded, “Of course. He knew all along. He didn’t expect he’d hide his identity though.”

“I suppose he’s used to having people figured out.”

“Mostly.”

“So,” Auguste said, nodding, “When they have sex—“

“I’m not reading you the chapter where they fuck, Auguste.”

“Then these three hours are going to be pretty fucking slow, Laurent.”

“Did you just curse?”

“I’m too tired not to.”

“Too tired you say but you stayed up late binge watching Gilmore Girls.”

“What were you doing up so late yourself that you knew I was up?” Auguste asked.

“Homework,” Laurent said, returning his eyes to the book.

“Yeah sure,” Auguste said, rolling his eyes, “And I’m the Queen of Holland.”

“With your hair you might as well be.”

“I take great pride in my hair, you know.”

“Isn’t it annoying when you play the piano, though?”

“Not really,” he said, and then, “Victoria wears a tiara to keep her hair in place without having to tie it up.”

“She’s really pretentious,” Laurent said, “I like that.”

“I figured.”

There was a silence, but it wasn’t as awkward or painful as before. The conversation about gay princes had managed to ease the tension, go figure.

Out of curiosity, and because he had meant to ask before but couldn’t find a good chance, he asked, “Have you decided on your career yet?”

Shrugging, Laurent averted his gaze and took a small box from his backpack, “I don’t think I want to pursue a music career.”

It kind of hurt, actually. But Auguste ignored it. “Is that so? What do you want to do then?”

“English, maybe,” said Laurent, “Or Law. I’m not entirely sure yet.”

The fact that Laurent had started to slowly drift away from music hurt him in a way he didn’t think possible. Music had always been something that connected them more than blood did. They were brothers but also partners. Friends. Musicians.

Of course, there was nothing he could do if those were Laurent’s wishes, but deep inside he had thought that perhaps they’d attend the conservatory together, too. Or that at least they’d continue on their music path side by side.

But apparently it couldn’t happen, no.

“Well,” he said, ignoring the pain in his heart, “If that’s what you want, Lo.”

“Do you want to play chess?” Laurent asked. Apparently the small box was in fact a mini sized chess board with magnetic pieces.

“If you want to lose so badly, it’d be a pleasure to beat your ass in chess.” Auguste said and smiled.

 

 

***

They had told him that after his first session he could either feel with a lot of energy or just really sleepy.

Auguste wondered if the first option was even realistic. If there was actually people that left chemotherapy feeling energized, because clearly his body wasn’t taking that lie.

He felt incredibly exhausted and had dozed off the moment Laurent had started to drive back home. He barely remembered going to his bedroom and letting himself fall on the bed, kicking off his shoes and wrapping himself in a blanket before finally sleeping.

The hours passed and he lost track of it all, the day becoming the night and then day again. He remembered briefly waking up to the sound of Victoria’s voice, but he didn’t have the energy to fully work his brain, so he fell asleep again.

The next time he woke up, it was mid morning. Looking at the clock on his nightstand he realized he had slept at least fourteen hours, which made him feel completely useless.

_ Ugh. _

And he would have probably kept reprimanding himself internally if he didn’t felt as sick as he did. He sat up, feeling the heavy twisting in his stomach and the nausea rising. He was only glad he made it to the toilet in time to throw up bile.

It was utterly disgusting. Something he had avoided since childhood, coming back at once and reminding you him why it was so gross.

“Auguste?”

Flushing the toilet, he let himself fall backwards and sit down on the floor. Laurent was watching him by the door, wearing his Charcy uniform.

“Hello Laurent,” he said, the nausea relieving a bit, “What are you doing home?”

Laurent didn’t answer immediately. And he had that look – that face that he used to make when he was a child. When he wasn’t sure of something, when he was kind of afraid because he wanted to help but didn’t know exactly how and wouldn’t dare asking.

He never changed, did he?

“Do you need anything?” Laurent asked, finally.

“I’m fine,” Auguste said and managed to stand up on his own. “I’ll just make myself a ginger ale.”

After a few seconds of tense silence, Laurent whispered, “I can make it for you.”

He felt Laurent’s eyes watching him as he stepped towards him and then out of the bathroom, “How about,” Auguste said, “We make it together while you tell me why you’re missing school.”

 

 

***

He couldn’t move.

For the last five minutes, he had been trying to make his legs react and bring him up, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know what was wrong; if it was because he felt exhausted or had anything to do with the medication and his illness.

The last thing he needed was for this to happen.

Weeks and months had passed and he was learning to live –or try to live—his life with all the new wrongs that made it all a semi-controlled chaos. The chemo and restrictions and the strange symptoms.

And the undeniable fact that his condition didn’t get better but worse.

It was a scary thought, one he had not allowed himself to see at first, but that now was clear not only to him but also to the doctors. Even though he spent most of his time motivating himself with music and playing with children that were in the same or even worse situations than him. Being optimistic was something he didn’t even have to try to do.

In the beginning of it all, he thought this was something he could do. He thought this was a battle he could win.

But it wasn’t happening that way.

And little by little, note per note, his life was starting to break apart. He had tried to continue going to school, but he couldn’t. The wedding had been postponed. Laurent had graduated Charcy and entered college to study English, in fact, he was about to finish his first year. And even though Auguste had been present, at the same time he had not been. He wasn’t.

He was there, but not entirely, not completely as he’d want to be and he knew it pained not only him but also Laurent.

And Damen wasn’t there and Auguste needed him to be.

And Nikandros and Laurent couldn’t be in the same room together for more than a few minutes.

And Jord and Laurent were still not talking.

He wasn’t upset because his friends were a mess; he was upset because he didn’t know if he had enough time to fix it.

He didn’t know if he still had time, how much he had. Maybe if he knew, he could try to change things. To turn everything around.

Right now, he couldn’t move.

He had been sitting at the piano, composing. Every time he was anxious and despair tried to take over, he went over to the piano and played. The sense of relief he got from moving his fingers on the keyboard and pressing on a few notes was enough to bring his mind back from the depressive depths this invisible monster was trying to take him in.

He wouldn’t give in to it.

This was his way of fighting. Because when he lost his sword and got thrown to the ground, he still had something left to fight with. Music could heal, music could  _ live _ .  Slowly he had been losing things, but this one he wouldn’t.

Music was loyal, sincere, kind.

And when he played, he didn’t feel sick. He didn’t feel any different than before. When he played he was still Auguste, the musician. The Golden Pianist. It reminded him why he was alive and what he had to do.

So he wrote music.

All of his frustration and his fear he made them into a song filled with hope, with  _ espoir. _ So that if someone else was in the same situation as him or simply needed a bit of gumption, they could find it in his music.

He wanted to give someone that chance, he wanted to reach people, change the world. Shake it under their feet.

But he was running out of time.

The piece started with sad, quick notes, then quickly developing into high notes, changing the spirit of the song only to push it backwards again into the desperate tone from before, only faster. Faster, faster, frustratingly faster. His fingers clashed on the keyboard and by the time he reached the climax, his fingers were tired. He played slowly, the sad notes turning into melancholy and then remembrance, finally into hope.

It was a story, one with a happy ending.

He couldn’t get up. He tried to uselessly get up from the piano bench, but he couldn’t. His legs were simply not responding and he had a moment of utter panic. Swallowing until his mouth was dry and his tongue raspy; scratching his head until he had blood under his nails. He was breathing poorly and his own heartbeats were agonizingly loud and heavy.

He couldn’t get up.

Auguste tried to lean on the piano, supporting his weight on his arms, but he couldn’t, his knees gave in leaving him on the same place. He clenched his teeth and closed his feet and for a minute he wanted to hit something.

His legs, for example.

He hit them, once, twice, three, four, five times. He lost count. Exhaustion finally won and he gave up.

Reaching into his pocket, he took his phone and dialed Victoria’s number. It rang a few times before she finally picked up.

“Auguste?”

He opened his mind to speak, and found that he couldn’t. Her voice had disarmed him. He felt air leave his chest, as if he had been punched, and he covered his mouth with his hand.

“Hello?” she said, concern notorious in her voice, “Are you there? Is everything alright?”

“Vee,” he said, finally, an ugly sob following after. He was crying.

Victoria asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t—“his voice broke, “I can’t get up.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line before she said, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Vee—“he tried to say something else but he couldn’t. He let the phone slip from his hands and fall onto the floor, the sound of something cracking. Probably the screen. He didn’t care.

Ten minutes later, the door was opening. Victoria rushed in, throwing her bag on the floor as she ran towards him on the piano, opening her arms and hugging him tightly.

“I’m here, love, I’m here,” she whispered. Her heart was accelerated and she was breathing hard, too.

Auguste let himself be comforted. Her body was warm and he closed his eyes, listening to her words like a chanting. Her sole presence was calming enough that when she suggested trying to get him to the couch, he nodded.

So they tried. It was difficult, not only because of the height difference—which was huge—but also the fact that his legs kept tangling in the piano bench. Eventually, they managed to push him up into standing, with his arm around her neck and hers around his waist. They took small steps together across the living room. The amount of effort he had to make to move each leg was painful and had him sweating.

“You don’t have to rush,” she said, gently, “I’m here.” And then, “ _ Piano a piano si va lontano _ , remember?”

“I’m so sorry,” he managed to say.

“Don’t.”

It took them a good half an hour, some stumbles and almost falling together, but in the end they managed to reach the couch.

Auguste let himself fall on it and groaned. He was even more exhausted than before. Victoria sat next to him, softly letting him rest his head on her lap and petting his hair.

“Victoria,” he said.

“Mmm?”

“I love you.”

She made a sound of contentment and looked down at him. Her brown eyes piercing through his heart like the first time he had seen her. “I love you too.”

Auguste hugged her, burying his face in her stomach and breathing her in. She always smelled like coconut. “Stay,” he whispered.

“Okay,” she smiled and leaned over to peck his lips.

 

 

***

He had thought that perhaps it was too early to start saying goodbyes.

Being in the wheelchair had not stopped him from playing the piano. But now, almost all of his strength was gone.  It was painful to play. His joints ached. And he didn’t have the brain to concentrate on it anymore; he wouldn’t last more than a few minutes playing until it became too much.

It felt like they were dismembering him alive.

He didn’t want to leave the piano, but he had to.

It had been his mother’s at first. And then, after seeing his interest, she had let him baptize it as his. He had chosen the name  _ ‘Amadeus’ _ not only after Mozart but also because he thought the name sounded wise and strong, adult. It was perfect for his black piano.

They became friends quickly, the connection immediate. It was so strong the bonding you could have with an instrument that often he forgot it wasn’t even a person – just an object.

And yet.

He had never felt the loss of an instrument before. Laurent – he had lost Eloise, his first violin. Auguste had seen his sadness from a third angle he had never experienced.

It fucking hurt.

Even more when he was the one dying.

He reached over and touched it, one last time. Letting his hands caress the smooth marble and slide down the white keys. He’d be admitted to the hospital for surgery the next day. He wasn’t sure he’d ever come back.

“Goodbye, Amadeus.”

_ Thank you for everything. _

 

 

***

It was peculiar that he could feel he was going to die.

He wasn’t sure how he knew – just that he did. It was something in the way his body felt, and his mind, and his heart. The way he was remembering every pretty moment he had been blessed to enjoy throughout his twenty three years of life.

When he saw his friends; Jord and Nikandros telling him jokes to make him laugh against the pain of his body, he saw all the memories of his childhood. He saw Charcy and green trees, blooming spring, early summer. He saw them younger, with pimples and ridiculous haircuts. Playing pranks, sipping juice from the vending machine. Loving each other and still not knowing that they did.

Every time he saw Victoria, he saw her ignoring his ass the first time he had tried to talk to her. He saw her smiling before kissing him, laughing as they ran around her apartment in underwear. He saw the curve of her nude back, with her dark, long hair falling on it like paint on a canvas. The way her eyes shone as she watched him awake the morning after they first made love. And when she held his hand, he remembered the touch of their lips, the spark from the first time they kissed. He remembered her soft skin, the freckles in her shoulders that he liked to peck.

And when she cried for him, for the inevitable end they both knew was coming, he remembered how he once thought he had never seen her shed a tear. How he never wished to do so. He remembered splashing her with water as they lay down in the bathtub together. Shampooing her hair, and then trying to untangle her wild curls. How she liked to braid his hair when they watched TV.

Victoria Romannoti was both art and an artist.

Her music inspired people, her words could kill a man.

And Auguste loved her. He had had the privilege to love her, and to be loved by her. 

When he looked at Laurent, he saw him still a child. Believing in Santa and the tooth fairy and the garden nymphs from their mother’s stories. He saw a little blonde boy very similar to him, opening a box. Staring in awe at a brand new violin, falling in deep love with it. He saw him practicing every day, bombarding Auguste with his progress as soon as they were home from school.

Each time he fell asleep on the uncomfortable chair next to his hospital bed, he remembered the way he looked when he was born. At first, he had been a very sleepy baby. Having to wake him up for him to eat. Very calm, very quiet.

Until he opened his eyes. Big, blue eyes like the reflection of the sea. Curious and enchanting and joyful. Already taking Auguste’s finger in his tiny hand, ready to go explore the world.

He couldn’t think of Laurent without thinking of Damen right after. Both of them were his best friends. Both of them had made his life incredible in so many ways. He could see it still, that day.

The day Auguste knew both of his best friends were actually in love.

He watched them laugh, side by side. Eyes filled with a fondness he had not seen anywhere else. Shy glances in public, small smiles they only gave each other. The way they could create their own world and forget about the existence of everything else.

Watching them fall apart had been awful. Being in the middle was even worse.

But he had hope, still.

He had written them all letters. Because each of them had given him something important at some point and now he had to return the favor. He wanted to help them, give them a puzzle piece and pray they’d put it back together without him there.

Because he loved them all, and he wished to stay a bit more, but he could not. He wished he could stay, watch them grow. Fix everything, finally. Become the group of friends they had been once.

But it was late, he was dying.

He had been dreaming of his mother the night before, in his feverish state. She was calling for him, smiling, taking his hand.

It had frightened him at first.

Now, he wasn’t afraid.

No, he had understood. This was his fate. He had come to this world to do something, to meet them all. To be a son, a brother, a friend, a pianist, a lover, a partner, a teacher.  

He would have liked to be a father, too. A husband.

Auguste de Vere wasn’t the hero of a story; he wasn’t the Prince or the King, the main character that finishes the journey. But he had been part of it; he had been the dreamer, the leader.

He had believed in the love he had received, multiplying it as much as he could. Giving it to those the world seemed to forget; the brokenhearted, the unfortunate, the deceived.

When he was younger, he had wanted to be someone important. He had wanted to leave a mark. He wanted his music to be remembered.

He didn’t know if he would be remembered, but he knew all those he had loved he wouldn’t forget. Not in this life or the next one or the one after that.

The marks they all left in him were enough for him to be grateful. For everything.

They were the Anthem, the melody inside his heart. The notes that made his song be worth listening and his story worth telling.

_ “Please don’t.” _

_ “Where is Laurent?” _

_ “Please don’t leave me.” _

_ “Damen, he’s not going to…” _

_ “You have to come here.” _

_ “Please stay.” _

_ “Auguste?” _

_ “Auguste, please stay.” _

He was drifting away. Slowly, the pain in his body was soothing. His mind felt heavy, like if he was dreaming, but he was not. The warmth of Victoria’s hand was fading, and he tried to open his eyes again.

She was there, watching him. Kissing his palm, reciting words he couldn’t understand anymore. He cupped her face and caressed her cheek, he didn’t know if he could speak.

Could he?

He turned to the other side of the room, where Jord and Nikandros sat. Nikandros was crying, sobbing, the sound was distant but still there.

He would have wished to see Damen again, but then he thought it was better if not. He liked to remember him like the last time he had seen him. He didn’t want to see his best friend’s heart breaking as well.

Laurent wasn’t there, either.

That was okay. Auguste had told him to go home, earlier. He was probably asleep.

He could only hope he wasn’t under the piano again.  And that he’d remember to use a blanket.

Would he remember to brush his teeth every night and eat the greens he detested?

Would he remember to do laundry and the dishes and wear a scarf in winter?

Who would wake him up in time for his classes or stay up with him when he got sick?

Who would tell him stories? And play his accompaniment?

Would he forget him?

Would he forget, his little brother, how his music used to sound?

He felt tears and the world started to disappear.

Would they be okay? Had he managed to help? 

Had he reached their hearts? 

“It’s okay, my love.” She said, “It’s okay, you can go.”

_ It’s okay. _

_ You can go. _

_ It’s okay. _

Would he finish it, the étude? 

Would he play for him, at last one last time?

_ Close your eyes, one, two, swear to the crown, in the name of the King. Laurent you and me, we’ll conquer the world.  _

_ It’s okay.  _

_ You can go. _

And then, he went.


	26. Interlude: The Night the Music Died

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends  
> Here's another chapter for you — again, I've planned this one since the beginning. It's a little special, and was supposed to be shorter. I don't know what happened there, but I'm happy with the result. I know between Chapter 25 and now this, and the piano issue you must be...upset. But this story is coming to an end, and there are things I think you all deserve to know, even if they hurt.  
> Thank you all for your incredible comments, in spite of all the suffering. You make my days better<3 I know this is not a conventional story, and I know sometimes it is incredibly hard to read and digest, but the fact that there are still people out there who read my words continues to amaze me and I can only thank you a hundred times.  
> Thanks to Ellen, as always, for your amazing support. You're the best beta in the whole planet.
> 
> Enjoy (or try to?) <3333  
> P.S. Again, thank you for the 400 kudos. Comment below to enter the official Kleenex giveaway.

 

> _“The night the music died,_
> 
> _Silence became a hollow noise,_
> 
> _Causing the moon to weep_
> 
> _And the city's heart to shatter._
> 
> _Hymns and hums became buzzes of people's sadness_
> 
> _As lovers' voices through landlines caused fire_
> 
> _In the neighboring homes_
> 
> _Allowing chaos to swallow the morning.”_
> 
> _\- r.m.d_

 

 

***

Do you know the meaning of the word _entr’acte_?

More commonly called _interlude_ . Usually, it refers to a short, simple play or dramatic entertainment. A play within a play, the space between two different parts of the same thing. In music, it refers to a composition inserted between the parts of a longer one; a _sinfonia_.

However, it’s easier to say that an interlude is an intervention, an interruption. There are certain periods in our stories, certain scenes, chapters, words that create interludes in our lives. They make you stop, lead you through another path. Most of the time, we don’t know why. It’s fair to think it is all an endless chain of events that started from the moment you started breathing, a very fast sequence of actions, like dominos falling on a table.

Sometimes, we want to stop them from falling. Sometimes we want everything to stop, let us decide our next move. But they don’t, they keep colliding on each other until the final one is down.

In plays and great works of literature, sometimes, there is an interlude. There is a prologue, an epilogue. Characters have a reason to be where they are, a purpose to end where they do. Their stories are a chain of dominos, set on a table, with the writer pushing on the initial piece. Everything falls into place perfectly, because someone else is controlling the scheme. It is planified, argued, dramatized. An idea that took life, an experiment for someone’s entertainment.

A puppeteer and their marionettes.

The real world doesn’t have an interlude. There is no prologue, no epilogue. People are born, sometimes just to suffer. No apparent reason, no purpose for a torture. Their lives are not chains of dominos, perfectly aligned by a third eye up in the sky. There are no schemes and no plans. Death doesn’t have an arrival date, or a good argument. Grief doesn’t follow a plan, no steps, and no rules at all. Life isn’t a toy set of action-reaction, it doesn’t work that way.  It is choice after choice. It’s setting up the dominos yourself, planning how to make it work, hoping you’re not wrong. Falling and bruising, starting over again until you get it right. Because there is no one else that will write your story, and in the end, no matter who you are, we all want to make it worth the sacrifice. We all want to make our stories worth a chance.

Otherwise, why are we alive, if not for that?

Why are we alive, if not to make of our dreams the illusion of what it could be?

Life is sickness and is health, happiness and sadness. Mourning, healing. Falling in love and out of it, breaking hearts and fixing them. Its shattering glasses, wearing masks, walking away and coming back.

Hurting and being hurt.

Life isn’t a perfectly told story, or a nice one, or a sad one. It’s unfortunate, and it’s cruel, with small intervals of joy. It’s not fair, nor delicate. It’s sharp and fast like a slap, there for a moment, gone before you know it.

There is no puppeteer, there are no marionettes.

Life, it appears to be like a piece of music.

It can be a short one, or it can be long. Hopeful or mournful. Twisted and complex or pretty and simple. It is learning to play your instrument as the song goes on.  It is your heart, singing a melody, writing an anthem.

We all want to play, compose our own notes.

We want our own sonata, a suite, a concerto with our own orchestra. We want the nocturnes and pavanes, the lullabies and arabesques. A canon, a capriccio. We’re greedy like that.

Auguste, he liked ballades.

Nicaise, he preferred tone poems.

Aimeric was fond of symphonies.

Victoria played toccatas.

And Laurent liked waltzes.

Life doesn’t have interruptions, it has cycles. Phases. People are not stuck in the same place forever, like in the pages of a book. It’s not a rondo.

Life has études. An incredible amount of them.

Pieces of music for the practice of a point of technique. Moments and events and people that make us learn something, in order to continue the main piece. An étude gives us that lingering moment of interlude that we often seek in the real world, it gives us those minutes of reflection that we need to regain our strength, to learn and retaliate.

That’s what it means, after all. A _study_ , an experiment. The random choices, the impulsive jumps. The trying and failing of learning to live without someone who held our world together.

Until we master the technique.

What are we all if not musicians, trying to play the best we can?

 

***

_I did something terrible._

_And I keep coming back to the starting point and checking all the things I could have done differently. Each of them leading me to the same inevitable result of the physicality of the whole thing; my brother is dead._

_But if I have played him a song, what would have changed? And why can I not see it? Where did I fail – where was my mistake? I keep asking you because I have no one else. Because that very night the music died and I was left with nothing. Nothing but a piece of paper with notes I cannot play and a mess of questions in my head._

_Auguste, if I had played you a song, would it all have been the same?_

_If I had done that for you, would you have stayed?_

_Auguste, brother, that night, why didn’t you ask me to stay?_

_When did we drift apart?_

_Why did you let me do that?_

_Auguste,_

_Why did you have to die?_

 

***

Laurent had imagined his brother’s death countless times.

As morbid as it was, it wasn’t impossible not to think about it, even when the images in his head often came accompanied by long moments of indescribable pain as though he was being burnt alive.

Sometimes, when his devious mind obeyed to his commanding, he managed to shake those scenes off and away. But some other days, they came at him on full force and refused to leave.

He had felt like this for a long time, like if he was not only one person, but two inside the same body. One reminding him of the gruesome reality, the other avoiding this fact. One showing him different scenarios of Auguste’s possible death, the other refusing to see any of them.

Two versions of himself who had managed to co-exist in the same space and moment of this very delicate point in his life. Two of himself who constantly fought each other, breaking the balance of his heart and his mind. Setting them on battle on a chessboard somewhere in the very depths of the realm of his thoughts.

So far, it was impossible to tell who was winning.

When he was younger, the thought had frightened him. But now, he was able to see and perhaps understand that at some point in his past, there had been a division. He had been broken in two, his reflections juxtaposed like the same angle of a mirror.

He wasn’t sure how or when it had happened, by whom. He just knew he hated mirrors.

Every time he looked at his own face in one, he had the desire to break it. It felt similar to that time he had cut himself, as a teen. How the thought had crossed his mind as soon as he saw the pieces of broken glass, and how he had pushed it hard into his own flesh, droplets of blood blooming on his fair skin like petals of lycoris radiata.

Similar to this strange urge he had felt for a while now; of leaving. Leaving somewhere, he wasn’t sure where. Leaving because he needed answers and he knew very well they weren’t at the place he was right now.

Leaving, because sometimes it was the only thing that made sense. Walking away, like he had done once with Damen staring at his back.

They were self destructive impulses, ones that he had learn to suppress but whose memories were still there in the back of his mind, reminding him of how powerful and dark the other half of himself was.  

Laurent had imagined his brother’s death countless times.

As morbid as it was, he didn’t find a way to ignore the constant alarm inside his head each time he visited him at the hospital and talked to the doctors. How they seemed oblivious to the way his hands started to shake each time they told him Auguste’s condition was getting worse.

And even though he had been through all that in a space of a bit more than a year, he wasn’t prepared to the reality of it all. The images inside his head could have never predicted the reality and sharpness of what he felt that night.

He could have never imagined how it would be, he never got that far to let himself feel more than a few seconds and it was enough for him to hope it wouldn’t have to happen.

But it did.

It was September eighteenth. He was dreaming, but he didn’t know so.

Laurent de Vere had fallen into a deep, rather blissful sleep. This nowadays was rare considering the amount of stress he had to deal with. For weeks, he had been dealing with insomnia. He thought that if he closed his eyes for a second, Auguste would disappear, so he stayed awake almost every night.

But tonight was the exception.

He didn’t realize he was sleeping until a sound started to disturb the dream, the impression of whatever thing he had been doing, the person he was talking to, slowly vanishing into black, until he was awake. Or at least, half awake.

Opening his eyes, it took him a few seconds to come back to himself and remember where he was. It was still dark and his head throbbed; the interruption of a deep sleep leaving him feeling exhausted. Reaching over, he took his buzzing phone from the nightstand and looking at the screen, he saw it was past three in the morning.

He stared at the numbers for a few seconds, his heart accelerating dramatically and his brain shaking off the sleep. It was Jord who was calling him.

He cleared his throat before answering, “Jord?”

“Laurent,” Jord said. The tone of his voice already dictated his next words, words Laurent didn’t want to hear. “Laurent, he’s gone.”

_He’s gone._

At some point, Laurent had thought that if that moment were to come, he’d feel it like he’d feel a wound, a cut, his heart aching to the loss. He thought that if Auguste died, he’d feel it before anyone could tell him. That it was a thing he’d know automatically, their bond breaking, shattering in pieces.

But it wasn’t like that, he had been asleep.

He had been asleep, and his brother had died.

“You have to get here,” Jord said. And then, in a resigned, awful voice, he said, “Your uncle is coming.”

That seemed to help Laurent find the way back to his own tongue, “Who called him?”

“He was noted down as next of kin too.”

There was a silence. Too long, until Jord spoke again, “Laurent?”

“I’m on my way.” Laurent said, and he was about to hang up when he added, “Do not let him near my brother.”

He didn’t get up from bed immediately after the call had ended. Instead he found himself alone, focusing in controlling his breathing, stretched out in the middle of his bed. His blue eyes opened against the darkness of the room.

Slowly, he could feel the void opening.

A void he had tried to lock for years in one of his drawers.

Slowly, his world was losing color.

Slowly, the monochrome scale was degrading everything to gray, including him.

Something—a sob caught in the back of his throat and he couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t pain. Pain, he thought he couldn’t get up from bed. He managed to; he forced himself to, every sense in his body screaming.

Auguste was dead.

It couldn’t be true.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

Auguste wasn’t supposed to go. Not yet. Not now. Not before him. Not like this.

He didn’t…

Auguste didn’t reach his dream.

Laurent felt the first tears sliding down and the way his face twisted as he choked back his crying. He couldn’t allow himself to cry. He couldn’t allow himself to fall apart.

Not yet.

 

***

His steps were loud echoes on the floor as he walked into the hospital.

Immediately, and because he hated himself more than he would ever admit to anybody, the first thought to come was the memory of the same loud steps accompanied by those of his brother, next to him, the day he started his treatment.

Both of them had been scared; Auguste had started to break down in the car and Laurent had not allowed it. Together they had walked inside and sat for three long, incredibly awkward and discomforting hours until the first chemo session was done and Auguste was so exhausted he barely made it back before he collapsed and slept for more than twelve hours.

And Laurent had watched him; entering his room and making sure he was alright. He had debated whether or not to go to school, getting dressed in his uniform only to lay down again because he was sure he couldn’t handle a day of classes and music lessons when his mind was fogged by worry.

_Tough fucking luck._

He walked faster, almost ran to the elevator because he doubted his knees would take him up the stairs in the state he was at. His body didn’t feel like his body. In fact, nothing felt real. Not the surroundings or his own involuntary acts, like breathing, swallowing, walking. His heart beating, pulsing blood towards his brain. His organs in perfect sync to keep him steady.

Could this be part of a Dorian Gray-esque cause and effect?  The fact that himself, as a whole, as a biological specimen worked like he was supposed to but his personality was rotten? And everyone around him kept deteriorating, but he kept on functioning.

Everything he loved died.

Dried up, like a flower.

His mind was disconnecting. He was trying to go away somewhere pleasant, but he had to bring himself back even though it was tempting to stay inside his walls, in his sanctuary where nothing could harm him and Auguste was alive.

_Tough fucking luck, Laurent._

The elevator doors opened in time, a single nurse walking out and speaking a word or two that he heard but couldn’t register. Entering, he pressed the button to the third floor and waited. Watched patiently how the red numbers on the screen changed, stared blankly at his sleep-deprived reflection on the mirror.

He hated mirrors.

When the doors opened again, he stood in front of a long, empty hall. Most of the rooms were incredibly quiet, and the only sound was distant; voices and sobbing. His heart skipped several beats as his legs moved toward the room. Auguste’s room. Where he had spent most of the last months of his life.

He felt sick.

It all felt eternal and still not long enough when he turned on the corner and saw them, all of them, outside of Auguste’s room.

Nikandros, who was silently crying and talking—or trying to—on the phone. Jord, looking exhausted and talking to one of the nurses.

Victoria. Sobbing, bawling like Laurent had never seen her before. She was in her mother’s arms, reciting words in Italian that Laurent didn’t understand. Some others, helplessly leaving her mouth in English. Awful and raw, _“I love him too much.”_ _“I want him back.”_ _“I cannot do this without him.”_ Both of her parents looked as heartbroken, but he didn’t know if it was because their daughter was mourning or because they had loved Auguste as well.

They probably did, anyway. Everyone loved Auguste; plants, animals, teachers, instruments, doctors, children, his fiancée’s parents.

His younger brother.

She saw him, first. And she didn’t hesitate to stand up and run, catching him in a hug. She didn’t say anything, just held him tightly and then let go. She looked for something in his eyes but Laurent avoided her, even knowing that would hurt her.

Jord approached him after. He walked towards him, holding his gaze, carrying a bottle of water and a backpack. “They allowed me to gather most of his belongings,” he said, “They need you to sign the death certificate.” And then, his voice broke a little.

Laurent nodded, “Alright.”

He breathed through his mouth; the sick feeling wouldn’t leave. Talking made it worse.

“They asked me,” Jord continued, “If there would be a funeral or…or if you had plans to,” he paused, “Cremate him.” Clearly the words made Jord feel as sick as he did. “I didn’t know what to tell them.”

He didn’t know. He didn’t know what Auguste would have preferred and honestly he didn’t care. He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to even think of it. So because it was the easiest solution he said, “He’ll be with mom and dad.”

Jord nodded, but before he could add anything else, Laurent walked past him into the room. For a minute, his eyes were planted on the floor. He forced himself to look up to the bed, from the feet to the top of Auguste’s head.

All the machines around him had been disconnected. He looked asleep.

His eyes were closed, his lips, although faded and broken, slightly parted. His hair, which he cut down a few months before, thin and more white than blonde was mused on the pillow. His arm was stretched out, his hand opened. Someone had been holding it, probably Victoria.

He looked asleep, and for a minute Laurent waited. He stood there and waited for his chest to rise again. He waited for the cough, the snore, the slight movement that never came because he was dead.

Feeling a presence behind him, he was about to speak up. Ask Jord how it had been. Hating himself for not having been there, for not listening, for being so goddamn selfish and stubborn.

But he turned around.

It wasn’t Jord.

“Laurent.”

His uncle’s stare made nausea rise on full force but he made himself focus. The man in question seemed very pleased with the sick look on Laurent’s face. “Why are you here?” Laurent asked.

He gave him a look, “Auguste was my nephew too.”

“No,” Laurent said. He knew this wasn’t what he should do, what he should say. But he couldn’t think and he felt like he would throw up on his own feet. “Why are you really here?”

The expression on his uncle’s face changed to a mix of curiosity and amusement, “It is not like you to be so bold.”

“It is not like you to make an entrance out of familial love, Uncle.”

Walking towards Auguste’s bed, slowly, showing off his confidence, he said, “I know what it’s like to lose a brother, you know.”

“Of course,” said Laurent, “Of course you do. I think it must have been utterly emotionally wrenching to find out your brother and his wife had died and you were suddenly gifted with the inheritance of their two young kids until the eldest turned eighteen."

“Well isn’t that a perfect profile to antagonize me with,” His uncle said, leaning down to brush the hair on Auguste’s forehead, “Is that what you tell everyone when they don’t follow your pathetic childish games, nephew?”

Snapping, “Don’t touch him.”

“Such a shame,” he said. To everyone else, the distress in his voice would sound real. “He was so young and talented. His life seemed so promising.”  A younger Laurent, maybe, would have believed him.

But those kind of mistakes, he didn’t make twice.

“It’s too bad he decided to ground all his potential by taking care of you.”  Staring down at Auguste, he said, “He looks like he’s asleep, doesn’t he?”

The image of his uncle touching the corpse of his older brother made him revolt.

_That’s it._

“Oh, Laurent,” he said, shifting his gaze to look at him, “Are you going to stand there all night?”

“Leave,” said Laurent. He was breaking. “We don’t need you.”

“We?” His uncle gave him a sad smile, “But you’re all alone, now.”

_You’re all alone, now._

His words dropped inside of Laurent like the last bits before a glass is full. They made an echo inside of him, the voices repeating it like a rotten mantra.

_You’re all alone, now._

“Since you seem to be incapable of anything at the moment, I shall take care of the paperwork.” He said, at last, and walked to the door. He didn’t leave before touching Laurent’s hair and sharing a compassionate smile.

When the door clicked shut behind him, he moved. Like out of a trance, fast, towards the bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet before he was throwing up. Everything, from his uncle to the touch to Auguste’s body to his own self sent unstoppable waves of repulsion until the nausea was too much to be contained and he was emptying the contents of his stomach over and over.

He couldn’t stop throwing up. Even when there was just yellow bile burning his throat.

He felt hands on his back and recoiled, but it wasn’t his uncle this time. It was Jord, who noticing his reaction, took his hands back. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t leave either. He kneeled down next to Laurent and waited till he was done to flush down the toilet and offer him a handkerchief.

Then, kneeling down on the bathroom of his brother’s hospital room, he felt how he started to fall apart. He felt his life begin to shatter.

And the worst part was that he was letting it shatter.

The worst part was that this time there was no one else he would let pick up the pieces.

He wanted to shatter.

What was the point of insisting on staying complete, when one of the pieces was missing?  He could try forever and never again he’ll be who he once was when Auguste was alive.

There was no point.

The night the music died, Laurent kicked one of the dominos and watched how fast, like an involuntary movement, his heart broke a million times.

 

 

***

Somehow, in the middle of the chaos, his mind left.

It only came back when he was finally alone, closing the door of his empty house. He had never realized how big of a house it was until that moment. Too big for one person.

_You’re all alone, now._

There was some light coming in from the sliding doors that led to the yard. Faint, morning light. The following events he did on automatic pilot; drawing the blinds, sliding off his shoes and crawling under the piano, putting on earbuds to block away the sound of solitude that invaded the whole place.

_I don’t want to be alone._

He lay on the cold floor without any making any sound. His back hurt, kind of, and he knew by the way his legs embraced the rest that he wouldn’t be able to get up until a few hours after.  Not that he had any intention of getting up ever, anyway. His mouth still tasted like vomit even when he had tried to wash it off, and his mind was clouded, fogged.

His heart…

Did he even still have one?

The tears came because they had to, and once they started they didn’t really stop. He cried, until his eyes stung as well as the rest of his face. Until his snot reached his upper lip and dried on his sleeve that he used to clean it with.

Hoping, for a minute, that Auguste would take him along to wherever he was going.

Hoping he didn’t have to be all alone, now.

Wishing for wishes; miracles that only happened in movie scenes and well told stories. To the heroes who are good and the princesses who love frogs and those who fight and save lives and don’t cry under pianos like he was.

He wasn’t a hero or a Prince and he couldn’t fight for nor save a life.

What could he do, now?

Was there anything he could do?

“Auguste,” he said, into the emptiness, “Come back.”

_Please, come back._

“Don’t leave me alone too.”

_I’ll play for you. If you come back, I promise you I will this time._

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

The echoes of his lamenting got lost in his childhood house as the sun shone down Arles. The city came alive and classes started. Planes took off and landed. Couples got married and babies were born. Songs and pieces were composed, books were started. Auguste’s death didn’t stop anything.

Laurent fell asleep, but in his dreams, he kept begging. He kept crying, he kept mourning.

The difference was that, in his dreams, Auguste always came back.

 

 

***

In another city, someone else answered their phone.

Damen yawned and closed his eyes for a few seconds, relaxing in the darkness and finding comfort in the sounds of the birds chirping outside his kitchen window. Usually, he would get up in the mornings and leave them some sunflower seeds and water in a pot, then watched them eat and bathe as he sipped his cup of coffee.

It never failed to make him smile, and his day was automatically better. It also helped when he woke up feeling lonely; in a strange city, away from his family and his friends. By now, even if he had gotten used to living in Ios, it was still not the city of his childhood and so it never really felt properly like home. Maybe, it wasn’t even about the place itself, but the people that were missing; like blank spaces on his puzzle, the picture couldn’t be complete without them.

He was sure that if Nikandros had come along with him like they initially planned, it would be easier to call Ios his home. After all, it was all about the people. People made the places, the cities, the countries.

But Nikandros had stayed with Jord, and Auguste had stayed with Laurent. And Damen had been admitted with a scholarship to the university he wanted.

It had not been easy to choose.

Laurent, perhaps, had made it easier by breaking his heart. That summer after high school was over, Damen felt the need of going away. He wanted to clear his head, be alone for a while. And it had worked, during the first months of his college life, being away helped. Meeting new people and exploring Ios had taken his mind away from the pain while his heart recovered. Soon enough, he found out he could think of Laurent and not feel like he wanted to cry. He could take a deep breath and feel like he would be okay.

After all, they had been teenagers.

It was almost a normal thing, to break up and such.

Today, unfortunately, he had ran out of sunflower seeds. The birds would most likely be disappointed, but he made sure to add it to the grocery shopping list on the fridge so he’d remember.

Opening his eyes again, he squinted at the light coming in from the window and sipped the last bits of his coffee before closing his novel and getting up. It was almost seven and his first class was at eight. He had always been an early riser. Sometimes, he liked to go on morning runs. Some other days, where he felt a little bit more quiet and kinda tired, he just read.

He stretched, and was about to walk over to the shower when his cellphone started to buzz on the table. It was Nikandros. Frowning, he stared at it for a few seconds before taking the call. It was past three in the morning in Arles.

“Nik?”

The sound on the other side was so strange that it took him a moment to recognize it as sobs. “Nik?”

“He’s gone, Damen.”

“What?”

“Auguste.”

He felt the second his eyes widened, and the phone slid from his hands, the loud sound of plastic hitting the floor echoed around the kitchen. Air left his lungs, as if he was being suffocated. The coffee in his stomach twisted and he felt the burn of acid, spreading over all of his abdomen.

Auguste was dead.

Standing there, barefoot against the cold tiles of his small apartment in a foreign city, he felt himself being swallowed by the dancing shadows casted by the morning light. He stopped listening to the chirping of the birds and the dropping water in the sink and the cars outside on the highway.

He couldn’t breathe, much less move. He was there, stillness in body and mind, watching the world collapse around him. Little by little, everything started to collapse.

The memories of his best friend started to taint with black. Holes opening between them, dividing them forever.

Auguste was dead.

Looking down, he tugged on the friendship bracelets on his left hand and the physical pain almost made him fall. His insides were being eaten alive, threatening to leave nothing behind but the smell of death and an empty shell of the person he was.

His ears rang, the world lost its meaning. The only thing that took his mind back was Nikandros’ voice. The call was still on.

Slowly, he let himself fall back down onto the chair and when he was sure he was not going to pass out, he picked up the cellphone from the floor. It wasn’t broken, but he could have cared less if it had been.

“I’m here,” he managed.

Nik’s voice had turned from sobbing to worry and Damen wondered how long had he been standing there, how long had he lost track of his mind, blurred by the sorrow in his guts. “What happened? I heard--”

“I dropped my phone,” Damen said, “I..” He closed his eyes, counted to three, found the words he wanted in English, “I’m taking the next flight to Arles.”

“Laurent—He said the funeral...would be as soon as possible.”

Funeral.

He swallowed back the nausea and leaned his forehead on his hand, and then he saw his own tears soundlessly dropping on the table. Trying to blink them away made his eyes stung, “What happened, Nik?” His voice broke.

Nikandros’s did too, “He was too weak after the surgery. He got an infection—he couldn’t do it.” Damen heard him cry, and Jord’s voice on the other line, trying to comfort him softly, “He was in a lot of pain. In the end, he was suffering.”

“I should have been there,” He said. “I should have—stayed longer.”

“You didn’t know,” Nikandros said, “I thought he could,” A pause, “Win.”

Suddenly, they all were teenagers again. They made wrong assumptions, they made mistakes, because they were young and they felt like they had the world figured out. That’s how Aimeric died. How none of them saw, not even Jord.

Perhaps, they all had gone wrong.

They kept doing it, they kept fucking it all up. They thought Auguste could win. They were sure he would, even if everything else was against him.

How couldn’t they see—how couldn’t he see?

And why _, why on earth_ had he not been there?

“I’ll be there tonight,” he said, He waited until Nikandros responded and then he hung up. Then, he let his head rest on the table and cried. He cried like a child, a lost, scared child.

It was September eighteen, and his best friend had passed away.

 

***

The shower, as well as food and school were immediately forgotten. What followed after the call was the semi-automatic process of buying a plane ticket (with his hands shaking, and having to type the number of his credit card four times before getting it right) and then packing his bags.

He shoved clothes in, trying for them to be all clean, but he wasn’t sure because he couldn’t focus on the task. He did his best to remember essentials like underwear and shirts, his phone charger, money, whatever the fuck he could need.

After that, after the crying and the cursing and trying to fit his stuff in the suitcase, he lay sat down on his bed and fidgeted the cellphone in his hands as he bit his lip.

He dialed the number and felt his heart speed up with each ring. Not knowing Laurent’s new cellphone number, he just marked the one of his house. That one, he knew, was still the same as it had been all his life. He waited. There was no answer the first time, nor the second or the third.

He tried again, at least five more times before giving up. He wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do. The sound of Auguste’s voice telling him to leave a voicemail, followed by Laurent’s, almost made him start crying again.

Sniffing, he set his cell phone down and passed a hand over his face. Very well he knew Laurent had no desire of talking to him. Four years had passed, and he never, not once, had heard his voice. Auguste kept him updated; like when Laurent graduated Charcy, and then entered college, and the fact that he had stopped playing the violin and for some reason Auguste couldn’t find he had become very stubborn about eating his greens.

He also knew he could easily ask Nikandros or Jord for his new number, but Damen wasn’t sure that would help either of them.

The thing was that, Damen didn’t know if he wanted to see Laurent, either. Or talk to him. He didn’t know if it could deal with it. Not because Laurent wasn’t important, or because he hated him, because it was quite the opposite, in reality. He still cared, he still worried.

To Damen, Laurent mattered. But the pain from the past had not left, it was just there, waiting for the moment the wound was reopened. Because their relationship had ended up badly, and they hadn’t been able to solve it properly, the wound never healed. You could dissipate the pain, like Damen had done, and sometimes you forgot it was still there.

But he was sure that when they saw each other again, the pain would come back, stronger than ever. And mixed with the agony of losing Auguste, Damen wasn’t sure this was something he was ready for, something he could do now.

Unfortunately, he had to.

And it was a shame that they had to meet again like this.

Damen lay down on his bed and waited until it was time to leave. By the time he went to the airport and sat on the plane, the sun was coming down. Another day had gone by, this time without Auguste.

He went through his iPod, looking for anything to block away his reality. But he found out that nothing he listened was enough. And he realized that maybe nothing would ever be enough again. Not only had his best friend died, but he also took music with him as he left.

The music had died for him and for everyone that Auguste had met.

And no melody would ever be enough again.

 

***

 

Do you know the meaning of the word _entr’acte_?

More commonly called _interlude_ . Usually, it refers to a short, simple play or dramatic entertainment. A play within a play, the space between two different parts of the same thing. In music, it refers to a composition inserted between the parts of a longer one; a _sinfonia_.

However, it’s easier to say that an interlude is an intervention, an interruption. But in reality, if we stop for a moment to read, to listen, we realize it is more a transition.

It’s the second the wind starts to rise, and we know our life is going to change.

This one started with a Chopin ballade and two brothers separated before time.

_Laurent de Vere woke up, and thought he had finally reached a conclusion: when you’re grieving, you feel numb, like you have another ten layers of skin and you simply cannot feel a thing. But also, when you’re grieving, there are moments where the numbness goes away, and a rush of emotions strikes you hard like a bullet to the heart. And in those moments you think, ‘That’s it, I’m going to die.’ But you don’t. And the pain doesn’t go away. And sometimes it can last for days, until the numbness comes back._


	27. Enjoy the silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, is anybody there?  
> It's been a while, I know and I'm so sorry. It's been a wild month, to the point tomorrow I have a nine hours flight to take. However! I managed to finish this chapter in time (ish?) and I'm very happy about that. It is definitely not my best, and it can be a little bit strange, but I hope you like it the same. I'm not entirely satisfied with it, but oh well. It's what I've got. 
> 
> Thanks to Ellen, as always, for being so amazing and Kelly for dealing with me every single day.  
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos and for reading this story. Those who've been here from the start -- I have no words. Seriously, thank you. And the new readers -- welcome to the angst corner.<3
> 
> P.S. I posted a [one-shot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10408986) a few weeks ago, in case you didn't know and want to read it. It's not Étude related but I'd appreciate it a lot if you checked it, too.

He counted the drops as they fell into the bathtub, the small echoes barely noticeable, but that he watched and listened for anyway. It was a mindless, automatic task that kept his attention focused in something else that wasn’t—

What he had done.

Very slowly, he turned on the faucet with his toe and felt the warmth of the hot water around his body. After a few seconds, he turned it off again. The cycle repeated over and over as he tried to mentally run away from his accusatory thoughts.

The voices inside his head chanted, all together, in a chorus of self guilt:  _ What have you done? _

Laurent sighed and leaned his head back against the damp tiles of the bathroom wall. How long had he been there, sitting in the water and ignoring all the things he had ruined, waiting outside the door? He wasn’t sure. Somewhere between staring at the ceiling and unconsciously splashing water, he had lost track of time. It felt as though hours had passed but he knew it couldn’t be true. The water wasn’t remotely cold and his fingers hadn’t turned to raisins yet. That meant he had to wait a bit more before getting out.

Taking baths was one of the things he liked most, actually. He liked the sensation of floating and the smell of oils and soap. It was so simple and ordinary yet it could help a lot during the worst times. It helped him think when he seemed to lose track of what he needed to do. He was not looking forward stepping out onto the battlefield and facing Damen. After a while, he had come back, most likely not having found Nicaise, and Laurent had quickly locked himself in the bathroom. It was a coward move, he knew. But he needed time to think. He wanted to be alone for a bit; since dealing with himself was already hard enough, he doubted he could deal with anyone else at the moment.

For a minute, he even felt glad Auguste wasn’t there to look at his mess. What would he think of all this? All the toxic, ill thoughts he had cultivated inside his mind and the dark emotions that haunted his heart? All the hatred and all the pain he refused to let go off?

He would be disappointed, maybe. But he wouldn’t hate Laurent and that only made everything worse. Auguste’s kindness only made it worse because he couldn’t hide from the fact he was nothing but a selfish, ungrateful, pathetic twenty years old boy who pretended to play the adult but in reality had no idea of what he was doing. Like putting on your mom’s shoes when you’re little and try to walk around, fake calling on a toy cell phone and working an imaginary job.

From the beginning of all this mess, Laurent had pretended to be the older one; he had wanted to be the anchor for once. He had pretended to have everything figured out. That Auguste wouldn’t die and that music wasn’t important and Damen wasn’t important either. Nor Jord or Nikandros or Nicaise or anyone. He lied until he himself became a lie.

Closing his eyes, he tried to shut down the voices, go somewhere pleasant, but he found that this time, there was nowhere to run. Nowhere he could hide, no sanctuary. He had sold the piano.

He had thought…for a while, he wasn’t sure exactly of when it started but for a while now he had thought everything was going to be okay.  He thought he was doing things right, finally. He felt like he could fix all the things he had broken and retrieve the friends he had lost. At some point, Laurent had started to believe he could be a musician. A concert violinist, if he went back to studying and practicing.

He wanted to go back to the violin. He wanted to play again like he used to – just because he loved it. But loving things and persons made it complicated. Falling in love made it complicated. He liked tutoring Nicaise as much as he liked being a boyfriend to Damen. As much as he loved playing the violin and cuddling with Vivi on rainy afternoons.

As much as he loved Auguste.

_ What have I done? _

In all honesty, he had forgotten about the ad. He had forgotten that at some point after the funeral he was too deep into his wounds and fogged by the grief that he wanted to sell the piano. And right now he didn’t know how he felt about anything, just that he didn’t wish for it to belong to someone else.

Auguste would have never gotten rid of Eloise or Cecil.

But he wasn’t Auguste. He never would be. He was someone completely different from who his brother had been and he didn’t know whether that was a good or bad thing.

There were so many things he didn’t know. So many things he didn’t quite understand and feelings he was unsure of how to deal with.

Again, he counted the drops.

The water had turn rather cold.  With effort, he pulled himself up and stepped out the tub, drying himself with a towel before moving to get dressed in his room. He took his time sliding on pants and a shirt that he suspected was Damen’s, and then sat on the edge of his bed and breathed.

Slow, composed breaths. His hair was still wet and damping his shoulders, but he couldn’t bother to deal with it. Instead, he hugged a pillow, like he used to in high school, and tried to shovel down his emotions as deep as he could.

He needed them dead and buried before he could talk to Damen. He knew that if he wasn’t careful he would break again and he refused to.

This time he didn’t want to break.

 

 

***

Damen was sitting in the studio. In the same spot as he had been last time, when they had moved the piano from the living room. His back against his wall, his face illuminated by the last few rays of the sunset. He didn’t look at him when he entered the room and Laurent debated whether or not he should call for his attention.

The air between them was tense, and Laurent knew then that he had, inevitably, hurt Damen too. Because that’s what he did, wasn’t it? Breaking things and breaking people. Like music boxes and past crushes.

He remained by the door, holding his breath. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

“I couldn’t find him,” Damen said, finally. After a pause, “Nicaise.”

Carefully, Laurent balanced his words, “He’s good at hiding.” He wanted to add that Nicaise would probably come back at some point, but the more he circled around the idea the more it seemed as a lie. He wasn’t sure Nicaise would want to see him again.

Quietly, in a whisper, “Why am I always chasing people who hide?”

“Because,” Laurent said, “You want to help.”

Damen looked up and their eyes met. Laurent had expected to find anything that wasn’t the disappointment and frustration in Damen’s eyes. He had hoped that perhaps after all these months together he could avoid the hurt look on his face.

“Damen—“

“In the end, you sold it,” And then, “Just like you wanted.”

_ It was a mistake. _

“I,” He struggled to focus in his words, in his reasons. Damen’s voice was painfully stabbing him. “I changed my mind.”

“Did you really?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re someone who never misses one small detail. You’re aware of everything. I can’t,” And then he stopped.

Laurent didn’t want to hear it, “You can’t what?”

“I can’t believe you,” Damen said.  

He tensed up, immediately. He could feel the barriers of his mind going up, one by one. He hadn’t—in a while. Not with Damen. His voice changed; when he spoke up he wasn’t himself anymore. It was the other, the reflection in the mirror that he hated.

“You asked me to trust you.” He said with a disbelieving laugh, “And now  _ you _ don’t believe  _ me _ .”

“You sold his piano.”

Damen said it like that was enough. Like he was giving up on everything and that was a fair reason. Like he was giving up on him because the truth lay open right before his eyes but he couldn’t seem to see it.

“Auguste is dead,” Laurent said even though his inner voice told him to stop, even when the pain threatened to make a hole in his chest. “And nothing will bring him back. Not you….or me…or a piano. He won’t ever be back.”

“He loved that piano,” Damen said, and his voice broke slightly, “You know that he loved it. You’re not accepting his death; you’re just trying to convince yourself you are. You think avoiding everything that reminds you of him will make it easier – but it won’t.”

He didn’t want to hear it. Not from him. Not ever. Clenching his teeth, “Shut up.”

Damen ignored him, “Do you think this is any easier for me? That every time I look at you – every time I see you smiling I don’t remember him? You-You think you’re so different and then you have the same smile, both of you. Auguste was my best friend and I miss him. He died and I wasn’t there. He loved music, he loved  _ you _ , Laurent and you sold his piano.”

Raising his voice, “It was a mistake, Damen.”

Silence.

It stood between them like an invisible barrier. Silence, between them, meant all the things that were left unsaid because they were avoiding hurting the other. Damen stood up and Laurent watched him, feeling his own anger rising up from his guts, his blood boiling. He knew, inside, that Damen was right in blaming him. He knew it was his own damn fault.

A part of himself reminded him that it had been like this once. One day in June many years ago they faced each other and it had ended up ugly.

They never spoke to each other again after that.

By now, his anger was bigger than fear. And the pain that had been consuming him busted into flames. The words that hurt most are usually those that come from pain. The rawest truths. Laurent didn’t know which of them was right, who was lying and who wasn’t. He didn’t know if the piano being gone hurt less than the fact that it was Damen who was pushing the knife into his wounds.

He had trusted again. And again he was deceived.

“You think a mistake makes this better?” Damen said, “You still did it, Laurent.”

_ You don’t know. _

_ You don’t understand anything. _

He let out the words like spitting poison, “Well what do you want me to do? Go to his grave and bring him back myself so you can see the smile on his face instead of mine?” And then, “What am I supposed to  _ do _ , Damen? What do you want from me?” Looking him in the eye, “It’s gone and I can’t get it back. I fucking tried.”

Damen scoffed, “You didn’t try hard enough.” And then, in a low and terrible voice, “You never really try.”

Laurent stopped. His stomach dropped. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know exactly what it means.” He said, “You don’t try hard enough, Laurent. And now Auguste is the one suffering for it.”

It happened before he could stop himself. The sound was loud and dry. It was so sudden and with enough force that Damen’s head turned slightly to his right. Laurent slapped him. Damen did nothing.

His lips moved, words were leaving his mouth and yet he couldn’t register half of them. This wasn’t how the story was supposed to go, but there was no backing down now.

“Don’t talk about my brother. Don’t talk like you even know how he would feel.” A small, bitter laugh echoed in the studio, “You can’t even be with Kastor in the same house. You rather live alone in a cramped apartment in the centre of town than facing your own brother. Don’t try to tell me you know mine better.”

“It is not the same thing.”

“It is,” Laurent said, “If it’s so fucking easy, if everything’s so fucking easy then go make amends with him. Forgive him for every shitty thing he has done to you all these years.”

“I never said,” Damen refuted, “It was easy.”

He inhaled. He counted to ten. Laurent felt the tears burning his eyes, threatening to spill over. He wouldn’t them.

“Go fuck yourself,” he said.

Damen left. He walked away from him and Laurent heard the front door closing quietly. It was only more infuriating the fact that he hadn’t even slammed it.

Alone, in the studio where the piano had been, Laurent said, to the empty walls, “One tear.” His lip twitched and he bit it, closing his fist, digging his nails into his own flesh until his knuckles went white. He tasted blood.

_ You will only cry one. _

No.

Not this time.

Not again.

_ I won’t cry again. _

_ I won’t let you break my heart again.                    _ __

_ Why are you hurting me? _

_ Why are you hurting me? _

_ Why are you _

_ Why? _

Laurent was only aware of the fact that he had thrown his mother’s favorite vase to the opposite wall when it crashed and fell into pieces on the floor, hitting with enough force that one of the paintings had been knocked down, too.

The sound brought him back to his senses. He was aware of the lack of breath in his lungs and the poor, desperate intent of his own body to regain oxygen. He wasn’t crying but close to hyperventilating, on the edge of hysteria. Everything hurt and he was tired of hurting.

He was tired of this entire sick, toxic circle he had put himself in.

Like white lies are fatality, too many small arrows killing slowly instead of one blow, not facing things when he should have had led him to this point with no return. Cul-de-sac, there’s no way out.

If he had called Damen back when they were young, if he hadn’t bullied Aimeric, if he had listened to Jord when he needed to and apologized to Nikandros.

If he had gone after Nicaise, if he had told him his music gave him chills, if he had been honest. If he had chosen a music career instead of a boring one he gave zero fucks about.

If he had told his brother the full story of his Uncle.

If he hadn’t quit the orchestra in high school.

If he had let Damen say what he needed to say in New Year’s Eve.

If he had told him the truth from the very beginning. If he had told him what he felt for him, at least once.

If he hadn’t ripped up the étude.

If he had told his parents he felt too sick and needed them at home, if he had made them stay that night—

If he had understood earlier,

If he had played for Auguste one last time,

It wouldn’t have been the same. In the slightest. Auguste would have still died, but now—not like that.

Perhaps, happier.

The thought reflected on a sob and he choked it back. He moved, slowly, towards the broken ceramic on the floor. Usually, he’d just lift up the painting and hang it again. Grab a broom or gloves and pick up the broken pieces, clean the mess, in automatic.

Today, he couldn’t. He imagined himself doing it, sent the orders to his joints, but his body wasn’t responding according to his will. Laurent tried to pick up the painting at least two times before giving up entirely; dropping it again over what had been his mom’s favorite vase.

He remembered that vase because he never truly liked it. It had been a gift from her best friend who lived in some country in Asia. Thailand, maybe. It was all black with a design of flowers in gold. It was hideous and he hated it, but it had been special to her. And then she had died, and now he had destroyed it. In a burst of confusion and strangled rage, he thought he could break another.

But he could break every single one of his parents belongings inside the house and it wouldn’t bring them back. Like Auguste. He wanted  _ them _ , not their things. Their things didn’t matter, things you could find again later.

He could get another piano. Order another ugly vase from Amazon.

But it wouldn’t be the same for they wouldn’t be  _ theirs _ . And it had taken him such a long fucking time to see that. What Damen had been trying to tell him all along with his brutish dominance, always right.

Sentimental values.

Maybe what he had wanted all along was for them to get mad at him. His parents and Auguste. Get mad at him for giving away their stuff, for selling the piano and the music books and everything they left behind that he didn’t care about. Maybe he thought that way they would come back to yell at him or something of sorts.

He’d give anything to have them all back even if they hated him for what he had done.

Laurent didn’t care for these things – but they had. They were special because they had belonged to the people he loved. Every single thing we own, even the smallest, holds a meaning and a memory to us.

That pen you keep chewing while trying to focus on the grocery list, the one you always carry in your bag. It’s not special because you bought it in a store for a dollar – it’s special because you wrote your first poem with it.

The stuffed toy you got when you were two years old and that is now ugly and its colours faded isn’t special because of what it is, but of the love it made you feel. Of the sentiments it brings back.

His own violin, his broken music box, his books – he loved those. Even when faded and broken and old and dusty. He loved them.

Why would he do that? Why would he care so little for the things Auguste loved – the things that made him happy? He had had a life. He had existed. He had collected memories and Laurent had thrown them away like they were nothing. Worth nothing.

If he could go back and change it, if he could revert his actions and every choice he had made. If he had valued more the memories and the people he had.

If he had valued his life and himself more from the start.

If he had paid more attention to the happiness and the laughs instead of letting himself be obscured by all those toxic emotions.

But now his family was gone, his friends hated him and Damen…

Damen. He loved him, truly, honestly, beyond measure. That’s one thing he had never questioned. He had never for one minute, because as time passed and they grew he found he could only love him more.

He wasn’t sure where they stood now – he didn’t know if had fucked that up too. Somehow, even after the awful things he had done to Damen back then, the string that bonded them had survived. Floating between them like in the Death Pond of his nightmares.

Now, however, maybe it wouldn’t survive.

But he didn’t want to let it die. He couldn’t let it—

Walking out of the studio, the sky outside was of a grayish-blue shade. It was his favorite part of the evening because of the colors and the shadows and silhouettes. Carefully, he stepped on the floor, on the place where the piano had been for so many years until he had moved it to the studio after Auguste’s death. He stepped on the marks it had left behind, his whole body tingling, waiting for something to happen. Like a curse or a ray killing him instantly. None of that happened.

He kicked of his shoes and lay down on the floor, imagining for a minute that the piano was still there.

He  _ loved _ that piano. It was Auguste’s, but it was also  _ his _ . Underneath the black marble was his favorite place. It was where he felt safe. It was his childhood and adolescence and the starting of his youth.

There were so many things connected to it that now it seemed the rest of his life – the last bits that had managed to stay standing were now falling apart, too.

Closing his eyes, he imagined the whole house falling apart on him. He wouldn’t move, not even an inch, letting it swallow him. He imagined the crystals from the windows breaking and becoming dust, the doors and the chairs and the expensive furniture becoming rubble. He saw the adorned walls come down, the chandelier of the living room falling at his feet.

He imagined the sound of the kitchen exploding and the bathtub from the second floor breaking through the ceiling and falling on the staircase, destroying it completely. He imagined it underwater and on fire. Abandoned and how it had been once – alive.

The place he had once called his home was now nothing more than the empty shell of the life he would have had.

Auguste would have moved out after Charcy. He would have found an apartment close to the music conservatory and their mother would have made him promise to visit every weekend. Laurent would have continued with the orchestra. He would have gone with Jord to one of those music festivals he liked. He would have called Damen; He would have visited him in Ios with Auguste during the summer.

He would have graduated and pursued a concert violinist career. Auguste would have married Victoria.  He would have continued to teach. Victoria would have become a famous pianist overseas, giving recitals and concerts. Retiring when she got pregnant, their first child named after something ridiculously beautiful and endearing.

They would have moved to a house similar to their parents. With the black piano Auguste liked so much; maybe near the ocean. Laurent would spend Christmas break and Easter with them, babysitting his nephew or niece. Teaching them to play the violin, starting a war with Auguste who wanted them to become a pianist, of course.

Of course.

That’s what it should have been.

He liked the thought that maybe in a parallel universe, that was his life. Like in that conversation he had with Damen on New Year’s Eve. Somewhere else, he had made things right. He still had his parents and Auguste and his friends and...

Music.

He was almost asleep when he felt something against his hand and he drew in a sharp breath, opening his eyes slightly. Vivi meowed and rubbed its head against his hand. Laurent scratched behind the ears, petted the head softly, tenderly. Vivi lay next to him, cuddling, leaning a paw on his leg.

“If I leave,” he whispered, “Vivi, would you come with me?”

 

 

***

Again, he was sinking.

It was that recurring dream once more; the one where he was pushed down into the black water and he drowned before he could reach the bottom. Slowly sinking until his lungs gave in and he was consumed by darkness and complete, heartbreaking silence.

At some point, he had wanted that. No music, no dying brothers, no crushes breaking his heart. Usually, in this dream, the more he strained the deeper he sank. So he had learned, over the span of time, that if he stayed still and did nothing, at some point the dream would change or he would wake up. Sometimes it was the beginning of a chain of nightmares; some other times it was just part of the Nothing At All.

But something had changed. Something was changing.

Laurent was tired of repeating the same pattern, the same mistakes – it led him nowhere but on the same place of anguish and self-destroying impulses.

Today, he swam.

He swam and he felt how his lungs ached for air. He felt how they burned inside of him, a reminder that he was alive and of what he was losing.

Today, he was not letting himself drown.

If he couldn’t reach the surface as he had tried to many times before, then there had to be another way out. He turned around, managing the weight of his clothes and blinked at the darkness of the bottom. He swam towards it with all his strength and ignored the rising fear inside of him.

The water worked with him, pushing him softly to the bottom. It wasn’t resisting, but rather helping him. Even though it was still dense and dirty, it seemed to flow like a river.

Upon reaching the bottom, he found a wall. He knocked on it several times before giving up and kicking it instead.

_ You’re not gonna make it. _

_ I have to. _

_ Why do you bother? _

The wall gave in, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, there was air. The scenery changed; like turning a glass over or breaking a fish bowl. There was air because he was falling on full speed.

Laurent tried to scream, but no sound came out. Or if it did, he couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear a thing. He was falling, and yet it felt like he was floating. He reached out a hand at the blue sky above him, endless and welcoming.

_ Are you afraid? _

_ I’m not. _

He stared at the clouds, counted them. There were fifteen. He didn’t reach the ground like he thought he would, and he didn’t wake up. Instead he fell like a feather on a bed of green leaves, his body coming to rest on the branch of a tree.

It was a lemon tree, but the leaves were attached to the roots, and from the branches fell lemon drops like rain. He opened his mouth, but it was tasteless.

It was all very strange and it was all very beautiful. He wasn’t afraid. He realized then that his mind was completely blank. He couldn’t think and he couldn’t feel and he couldn’t hear. He was there, but was he really?

“Laurent?”

A voice. He knew that voice. It was the only voice that made his heart that of a mouse. Laurent looked down from the tree to face Damen.

But it wasn’t his Damen.

It was younger; it was the Damen from his first kiss. He was wearing flowers on his hair, pink delicate blossoms that stood out on his dark curls. His Charcy uniform was a mess; with his sleeves rolled up and his red tie unmade and his pants a bit too low. The black oxfords were stained with dirt and the jacket lay on the ground near his feet. His expression was worried and his cheeks were flushed, like if he had been outside in the sun for a while.

“You’re not,” he said, frowning, “Laurent. Have you seen Laurent?”

Because there was nothing else to say, Laurent said, “I haven’t.”

“Can you help me find him please?” Damen asked, and Laurent noticed his slight accent. The Damen from the present had improved even that, eradicating his marking of consonants almost completely.

It made him smile.

“And what are you going to give me,” Laurent said, “If I help you?”

Damen looked around, desperately seeking for something to give in exchange. He shook his head before saying, “Anything.”

“Anything,” Laurent repeated and asked, with certain curiosity, “Even your heart?”

“I can’t do that. He already has my heart.”

It left him breathless. Somewhere in his subconscious a red alarm turned on, but he didn’t want to stop dreaming. Not now. He couldn’t remember what it was that bugged him, but it could wait.

It could, right?

Laurent’s smile faded and Damen noticed, quickly. Trying to repair the damage, one he couldn’t really understand, he took a flower from his head and reached it out towards Laurent. “I’ll give you a flower.”

As he took it, the pink flower turned into white in his hand. White, with small drops of blue on the petals. He was about to speak up again when he looked up and noticed Damen was gone.

Instead, at the place he had been standing, there was a door. Heavy wooden with stained glass. He got up from the ground and shook the leaves away.

_ What if you don’t like what’s inside? _

_ Tough fucking luck. _

_ Why do you bother? _

He turned the knob and opened the door. Then, he was home.

It was his house, but alive. There were people in it. Someone – his mom was playing the piano, but he couldn’t hear any music. People were dancing and chattering and as he stepped in, no one noticed him.

There was a Christmas tree next to the chimney that they never used, surrounded by gifts and candy and stuffed toys with Santa hats. It smelled of hot chocolate and roasted chicken and peppermint.

It smelled of his dad’s cologne that he only wore on special occasions. The imported tobacco he smoked with his brother – no, he didn’t want to think of his uncle now.

_ You’re not hurting me again. Ever. _

He walked through the people like they were moving on slow motion and he made his way upstairs.

Maybe, if he reached his room, he’d find the Laurent Damen was looking for. He thought that, but then—

He saw them, running in his direction like he didn’t exist. Like he wasn’t there at all. It was his brother, and…himself. When Auguste was nine and he was six. They were laughing, jumping, making noise –or he supposed so, because he couldn’t hear it—with toy instruments. They ran straight through him and didn’t look back. Instead, flew to the stairs, hand in hand.

_ It’s like a mirror. _

_ I wonder which of us is the real one. _

_ All of them are. _

Looking straight ahead, he saw the door to his room at the end of the hall. Before he knew, he was running. He was running and running but the hall seemed to never end. It became longer and longer and when he thought he had finally made it, he was tricked.

_ You’ll never reach it. _

_ I will. _

_ Why do you bother? _

_ Because I have someone I want to see. _

The door opened, and he stumbled into his room. But it wasn’t his room. The floor was black and white like a chessboard, the bed and the desk and all the furniture were hanging upside down from the ceiling. The books had wings and flew around the room freely. The walls weren’t blue, but white. Apart from the inanimate objects, there was nothing else in the room. No people and no Laurent.

He understood then, what this all was about. This was his own reality told by his subconscious. It was his own small world that he never showed to anyone.

In front of him, a mirror appeared.

It was tall, in the same of a violin, and it reflected his face. However, as he tried to touch the glass, the image changed. The reflection was Damen’s.

He blinked at him, and they pressed their hands together – or tried to, against the glass. He wanted to touch him, to hold him, to apologize. Laurent tried to grab him, to get through the looking glass, but he couldn’t. And then it changed again, no giving his heart time to react, to Auguste’s. And again, to Victoria’s. And again, to Nicaise’s.

And Jord’s. And Nikandros’s.

And Aimeric’s. And Jokaste’s. And Torveld’s. And his mom’s and his dad’s.

The reflections kept switching, changing, from people he knew to those he couldn’t remember. It was fast and confusing and he didn’t know what he was looking at by the time it landed again on himself.

Then, it broke. It shattered and he covered his face to protect himself from the glass, but nothing ever touched him and he felt no pain.

Everything was dark.

That was the first thing he noticed. Everything, from the ceiling to the floor and the walls were pitch black. The second thing he noticed was the water on his feet, starting at his ankles. It was black, as well. He could hear the echo of small drops falling down into the water, like if he was in some kind of underwater cave.

He had been there before. He remembered.

But something had changed. There were no voices this time and he didn’t feel intimidated by an invisible form. Nothing was chasing him.

“Laurent?” he called, “Laurent, are you here?”

No answer.

Laurent walked through the cave, not really knowing where to go since it was too dark for him to see anything at all. But he walked like he knew where he stood. Like a Prince coming home. With nothing to fear and nothing to lose.

Finally, he reached the pond. The tree with red hell flowers seemed to move, gently, its branches parting, making way for Laurent. He didn’t want to look into the water but he made himself do it anyway.

He already knew who he was going to find; that younger version of himself, the sixteen years old wearing a Charcy uniform, the one that had pushed him into the corpses last time. He was alive, but asleep, floating in the dark water. On his chest, a violin rested. It was broken, like Eloise, but he held it to his chest, his arms crossed over it like a statue.

It was strange, as it had been before, to look at him. He was a child, shorter, his hair floating around him like an aureole or a crown.

He was about to call his name when the boy opened his eyes and started sinking. He was struggling, splashing water all around and calling for help. He was drowning.

_ I’m going to die. _

_ No, you’re not. We’re not. _

_ Why do you bother? _

_ Because there are people we need to see. _

Reaching over the pond, Laurent held out his arms and grabbed the boy. Their hands locked, and the force pulling them down was too strong and almost made him fall into the water as well.

His arms and his hands hurt, and there were small invisible cuts, like those you get from paper or a very thin glass, showing up all over his skin. They were opening, bleeding and they stung with every movement he made.

But he had to save him.

He had to save himself.

Because if he didn’t, then who else would? If he didn’t stop and cared now, who else would? In the end, he was alone. Whether that was good or bad, happy or sad, it was what it was.

If there was no one else there to pull him out of the water, then he’d pull himself out.

If there was no one there to put him back together, then he’d find the pieces and glue himself back. And even if there was a person, even if there was someone who cared like Auguste had been, it was useless unless he did it himself.

He had to break the cycle now.

The force gave in, and he pulled the boy out. Instead of water, he was bringing back flowers, Lycoris radiata. Laurent held him through the choking and the tears that came after. He was crying and desperately clinging to him. It wasn’t like the last time he had seen him, with cold eyes and controlled voice.

“I’ve been so lonely here,” he said, through the sobs.

“I know,” Laurent whispered, “I know and I’m sorry.”

“You locked me up in the dark,” the boy replied, clutching the violin close to his heart.

“I know.”

“I hated you.”

“I did, too.”

The boy looked up to meet his same eyes, and then he asked, “Are we going to play the violin again?”

Laurent didn’t know how to reply. What was a truth and what was a lie, anymore?  Before he could think of an answer, the boy was gone. Instead, on the place he had been, a music box stood. It was broken, but a violinist swayed inside.

Next to it remained Eloise.

He took them in his hands and watched how the cave, slowly, started to turn to white. The pond became a river with clear water flowing. The tree became a white marbled piano.

Soft music played, and he was able to hear it finally. It was a waltz, Chopin’s. He remembered learning it as a child and how much he hated it, in spite of his infinite love for waltzes.

The double sharps gave him anxiety and a hard time, his left hand never obeying to what he wanted to do. Auguste had taught him, in the end, with enough patience and too many wasted weekends.

He never played it for fun after that, but he remembered how the melody went. He hummed along, his voice a bit out of tune.

“You saved him,” a voice said, behind him.

Laurent turned from the piano and as the song finished, his eyes landed on a person. A guy his age, with dark skin and dark hair –they were almost, if not the same, colour. He was dressed in a suit, a tux.  When he spoke, he had an accent. It wasn’t like Damen’s, too subtle to notice sometimes, but rather marked. Thick.

Laurent stared at him. He felt like he knew him from somewhere, but he couldn’t make out where. He had the vague sensation that he had known this person once, and then—

“It was about time, if you ask me.”

Blurting out, “Cecil?”

Cecil smiled, affirming his assumption, “What are you going to do, Laurent?”

He whispered, “What should I do?”

“Don’t ask me, I’m an instrument.”

Laurent sighed.  _ This is not even real. _

Giving him a curious look, Cecil sat in front of him, crossing his legs imitating Laurent’s pose. He said, “ _ The truth is rarely pure and never simple _ .”

“Music can’t be the answer to everything,” he said, and it was a déjà vu.

Cecil chuckled, “Haven’t you learned anything yet, you foolish boy?”

_ You foolish boy. _

 

 

***

The sound of the phone woke him up. It invaded his dream and once he was aware of it, it was impossible to focus on what was happening. Slowly, his mind came back from the realm of dreams and he connected to his body again.

His back ached and the floor was almost frozen. Vivi was still curled up on his side, and he tried his best to reach for his phone inside his pocket without disturbing him.

Everything had been a dream. But it felt…

It felt strange.

Like somehow he was still processing all of it. He didn’t wish to forget it, but he knew he most likely would after the somnolence vanished. Nightmares were the things he never forgot.

His eyes couldn’t adjust to the brightness of the screen, so he blindly pressed on the answer button and held the phone to his ear. He didn’t recognize his own voice at first and had to clear his throat several times before any congruent sound came out, “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was hurried and choked but he knew who it was as soon as he heard the first word. He sat up brusquely, making himself dizzy and startling Vivi, who jumped awake with a loud meow.

“Nicaise,” he said, “Calm down. Nicaise—calm down, I can’t understand you.”

“Please come pick me up,” Nicaise managed.

Laurent ignored the pain in his back and he stood up. Behind the windows of the living room, the sun was rising in Arles.

“Where are you?”

 

 

***

It was the first time that Damen visited the grave on his own.

After the funeral, he had taken flowers to Auguste every month, like he did with his mom. But usually, Nikandros tagged along. Neither of them could face it alone, and together they felt like they didn’t have to.

When you visit a grave with someone else, you’re distracted, whether consciously or not, by their presence. There are things you can’t let yourself think, feel or even do when you’re with someone else. Doesn’t matter if it’s out of fear of judgment or just because when we’re alone we can admit to ourselves things we wouldn’t do otherwise.

This time, however, Damen went alone.

After the fight with Laurent he felt he needed to talk to his best friend. He spent at least half an hour biting his lip in his car and listening to old eighties ballads to muster some courage and finally driving to the cemetery.

He stopped by the store to get some nasty bottle of hard liquor that he chugged while sitting on the grave of his best friend.

It was sad, and it made him want to cry. And the sky was covered in rain clouds and the air was humid and it smelled of the spring that was starting, bringing back memories of first kisses and lemon trees.

Before he knew, he was talking.

“He’s impossible and insufferable. And sometimes I just want to fucking punch him, Auguste.” He said, taking the bottle to his lips and taking a sip, “We’re all fucked up and…and I just...need you here to tell me that I need to be patient. To tell me I have to go back to that house and talk sense into him because I think I'm in love with him and one of us is breaking the other's heart but I can't tell who it is. And it hurts so much I think I’m not going to survive this again.

“I was going to intervene; I was not going to fall on this for the second time because I never recovered from the first. But you asked me to, and truth is maybe deep inside this is what I wanted. I just wanted to help him. And I feel guilty because you were his brother and he’s broken in so many pieces but I,” he swallowed, “I think I am broken too.”

Taking a deep breath, he played with the bottle in his hands and let the tears roll down. Whispering, “I wish you were here so I could complain about how much of an asshole he is. How he makes me want to kiss him until neither of us can breathe. How I want to give him the universe and more if possible. And yet how some days we just want to murder each other.  And then, after listening to my awful ranting, you'd tell me a funny story about him in first grade where he hit someone with a doll when the teacher wasn't looking and I'd laugh and...I'd feel better.

“I never wanted to tell you I was in love with your little brother. I don’t know why, I guess I must have had a very stupid reason. But it doesn’t matter when you’re dead. Honestly, there are some days, some weeks where I think nothing matters because you’re dead. I know it’s not true, and I get scared that something really badly is happening inside my head and I can’t find what it is.

“But of course…I know what it is. And it’s just that I miss you. So much, Auguste. So much. And I love Laurent. I love him, Auguste, and I’m scared of losing him.”

_ What should I do? _ He thought, looking up at the stars in the sky.

It had been more than the piano. It had been more than the mourning and the self hate. It had been the fact that Laurent only seemed to want him when he needed help. When he needed Damen to fix his shit.

It had been the fact that Laurent never seemed to be there, too deep into his own bubble to realize Damen was in an immense of pain too, most of the time.

It had been the lies and the dishonesty and the lack of words.

It had been the fact that Damen had came to the conclusion he loved him profoundly but he didn’t know how to deal with it.

He didn’t know if Laurent wanted to deal with it.

Even now that they were dating and they had shared such an incredible amount of things, sometimes it felt like they took small steps back to the starting point and it was terrifying.

“You know, Auguste, I think I know what I want to do now.” He whispered, and pulled a small, wooden music box out of his pocket. It was tinier than the palm of his hand and the lid had the design of a piano, similar to the black one Laurent had sold. He wound it up before opening it and leaving it next to the tombstone. “I made this for you. I figured maybe my words can’t reach you where you are now, but music can.”

By the time he fixed the sunflowers in the vase, the music had stopped. It was a small melody he had made with the help of Laurent’s clavietta. Damen wound it up again before leaving.

_ And you know, Auguste. I miss his violin, too. _

_ It made him happy. _


	28. Petrichor | Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,  
> Yes, I know. I know it's been almost two months and I'm super, super sorry about the long wait. Writer's block sucks. However, I'm back. And I'm currently writing the next chapter so it will not take me another two months to update, I promise. This isn't my best, at all. But I tried hard, and I hope you like it all the same. 
> 
> Thanks for being so supportive and kind even though I keep breaking your hearts.  
> As always, thanks to Ellen, my beta and one of my best friends in this planet. Where would I be without you? No clue.  
> Enjoy!<3
> 
> P.S. I wrote a [special chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10888551) (100% fluff) in case you want to read that too.  
> P.S.2. I'd appreciate it a lot if you could also check out my twitter (@princesgambit), there's a link there in case you want to help me a little bit!  
> UPDATE: There's only four more chapters till the story is over, at least for now. By the time I post Chapter 29, I'll make sure to set the chapters count.

It was cold outside.

His muscles were opposed to the idea of moving after spending the night lying on the living room floor, but he made himself get up anyway, in spite of the multiple protests.

Nicaise’s voice had set an alarm ringing in his head, and before he knew he was sliding Auguste’s leather jacket and a pair of shoes on. He was very much awake, but at the same time he wasn't sure he was. There were so many images in his head that it was hard to focus on what he was doing. Grabbing the keys, checking Vivi's food bowl, stepping out the house and walking towards his car.

He was awake, back to his life. And yet he couldn't forget his own young self struggling in the water. He couldn't forget his words; they were resounding in his ears as if it had been real. Rubbing his hands, he could still feel the imaginary sting of the paper cuts opening in his skin, millions at a time, bleeding and scarring as he tried to save--

Laurent, the violinist.

_ I’ve been so lonely here. _

_ You locked me up in the dark. _

It had all been so vivid, and it had made so much sense...and yet not. What are dreams but the reflection of one's subconscious? What is a dream but the mirror of your inner being?

What was Laurent, the young violinist of his psyche, but the recipient of every mistake he had made so far? Every path, every consequence. The pain he had so hard buried within his heart.

Lonely.

Locked up in the dark.

It was so hard, harder than he'd ever imagined, to acknowledge his own pain. Bottling up his emotions had been like poisoning himself, very slowly, over the course of the years. And he had been dealing with the side effects of healing.

He had been through each of the stages of grief; he had been through the denial and the acceptance and the overcoming and relapsing.

He had regretted living, and then at moments, he had loved it. And he had feared dying as much as he had been longing for it. And he had hated, and he had loved. And he had regretted, and he had loved. And he had remembered, and he had loved.

And the more he thought about it, he found it hard to swallow through the knot in his throat.

And he had told himself he was the only one in pain.

But he very much wasn't.

He hadn't managed to spare Auguste from his suffering, and there was no one he could blame for his death.

And that was okay.

It wasn't going to stop hurting now. Perhaps, not in a while, not ever.

And that was okay.

Maybe it would never be truly okay.

And that was, in the end, okay.

_ Le vent se lève _ , he thought, because it was impossible not to.

The air was cold, in spite of the sun shining above, marking the beginning of a new day. The breeze messed up his hair even more than it already was, and for a second he simply stood there. For a second, he let himself linger with a hand on the door handle and the sound of the keys tingling and the newly bloomed leaves of the trees against the wind.

_ Le vent se lève _ , he thought,  _ things are going to change. _

Looking up, he stared at the always-graceful blue of the sky. He wasn’t sure how many hours he had slept, and in spite of the position on the floor and the strange dreams, he didn’t feel tired in the slightest. His mind was clear from the fog, and he felt something he had not felt in quite a while; an inner peace, a status of calm with himself.

Slowly, he breathed.

Things are going to change.

Even when Nicaise was in trouble and Damen and him had undoubtedly hurt each other. Even though the piano was gone and he couldn’t find a way of getting it back. Even though it seemed everything he had managed to build had fallen apart once again.

Even with all that, he still had a lot of things to fix and people yet to see. But he allowed himself that tiny moment of self relief.

A small victory.

Could it be called that? The fact that at least now he knew where he had gone wrong. The parts he had miscalculated. The words he didn’t use and those he erroneously spoke up.

A small victory; knowing what to do, now. Knowing that the following step on the list was his, and it was difficult. And it set his heart on an anxiously driven beating circle. Believing it was the right choice, even so.

The cycle had been broken. The sick, toxic, black thing between him and everyone else, between him and the rest of the world, had come to an end. The interminable torment of questioning his existence and the music within him ended there. Finished, finito, caput.

It was over, the suffering act. And the holding back tears, and the denial of something that could make him happy.

Happiness wasn’t something you seeked for, something that could be set as a goal at the end of the labyrinth.  It was the hidden joy of turning the right way between the bushes, the excitement of finding a new route to follow. It was not knowing when or how to finish the maze, but the adventures we found in it.

He had always thought happiness was not something he could have, something Auguste had been born with and he had simply not, or had lost it at some point in his life.  He had thought that Auguste had taken every little good thing there could possibly be with him when he died. For months Laurent had been torn between hating his brother for that and missing him desperately.

But it wasn’t true.

Auguste hadn’t taken anything from him.

Auguste didn’t choose to leave him.

Auguste loved him.

No one else was to blame for his own mistakes. And that was okay.

It had taken him so long to understand that; something so important and he had known all along but that never fully grasped out of stubbornness and grief.

And that was okay.

Auguste had given him so many treasures. So many melodies to play…and friends. Friends, people who still cared for him even after he had tried to inflict his pain on them. Even after he had tried to lock them away in a drawer, too. He was about to lose them.

He bit his lip and the wind blew again, but he tore his eyes away from the sky and got into his car because things were going to change.

Was he on time, though? Was it not too late? Was it not too late to play the violin again?

Was it not too late to go back to who he used to be?

Laurent, the violinist, the one that played for the joy of it and those he loved. The one that managed to reach people's hearts through the sounds of his own. The empathetic one who closed voids and composed songs. The one who liked to teach, and breathe, and live.

Would it be too selfish to ask for a second chance? Ask music to love him back just this once?

Was it too late to write the anthem of his heart?

_ Damen, am I too late, perhaps? _

_ Auguste, am I? _

 

 

***

The address Nicaise had texted him was from a building complex in the west side of the city. Considering Laurent lived in the east side of Arles, it took him a good while to find the place, especially when there were already people out of bed and going to work so early in the morning.

He found it, however, after a few trials and errors that included turning into the wrong neighborhood and ending up in dead streets. After parking, it had taken him a few minutes identifying each building—because of course, why would anyone want to know the difference between Tower A, B and C? Who would feel the need to actually add some form of identification on each of the doors? —and he headed straight for Tower B. It was an old building with an elevator ‘to be fixed’ and the door, although supposedly to be locked with a special magnetic key, seemed to be broken.

He strolled in like he knew the place in case there were any observers, but there were none. Nothing but a set of mirrors in the wall opposite to the staircase that he ignored. The floor was of ceramic squares with an appalling salmon colour, and the walls grey, if not a dirty white.

The whole thing gave him a bad feeling, like a goose bump that travelled around his body; the sensation of something crawling on his skin.

The apartment was number sixty four. Laurent climbed the stairs up to the sixth floor, trying and failing to keep his breathing somewhat controlled.

He wouldn’t let himself stop, though.

Once in front of the door, he took a minute to compose himself and then knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again, waited a few minutes and then rang the bell.

No answer. Not even a single sound on the other side, or the presence of movement to be expected from a person answering the door.

“Nicaise?” he called.

Suddenly, he felt the first few anxious drops of his stomach and the accelerated beats of his heart about to panic.Trying again, louder, he called, “Nicaise? It’s me, Laurent.”

Nothing.

As if his mind wasn’t already morbid enough, various scenarios started to haunt his imagination. Each of them worse than the last, however, they all ended the same way; with Nicaise’s blue eyes staring at him from the Death Pond.

Knocking on the door several times, he tried to call for Nicaise again but seeing it was rather useless, he opted for the barbarian, dramatic way. A bit of brute force. He held himself against the door and balanced the weight of his body in his right shoulder, crashing onto it a few times before there was the sound of a cheap chain lock snapping and the door flung open.

Nonetheless, the apartment was quiet. He entered and closed the now-useless door behind him. It smelled like the back of a bar on the worst side of town; nasty hard liquor and piss. The first room to his right was the kitchen, which in reality seemed to be the deposit of takeout food containers and wrappers of different kinds of snacks.

To his left, there was a hall that led to the living room. It was all a mess of empty bottles and unfinished packs of cigarettes. He stepped carefully, yet hurriedly, “Nicaise?” he said. “Where are you?”

Laurent walked around, and the more he looked, the more he felt Nicaise’s reality sinking deep into him. Nicaise grew up hiding in the shadows; he learned to deal with different forms of pain until suddenly he couldn’t anymore. He had no home, no sanctuary, no place where he could actually feel safe.

He had no Auguste, not a savior or a protector. Like Aimeric. Like himself.

There’s so much one can take before it’s too late.

Stumbling, he found a locked door. There was light seeping underneath, and he knocked on it. “It’s me,” he said, “Open up, Nicaise.”

A few seconds and the door was unlocked.

It was a bathroom, and Nicaise was sprawled on the floor. His breathing was shallow, and he looked exhausted and sick. With blood on the starting of his hairline and a bruise on the left side of his face, on the bone near the eye, right above his cheek.

Laurent felt air leaving him. Nicaise followed him with his eyes as he knelt down in front of him. In an awful, raw voice he said, “You came.” As if though he couldn’t believe it. His lips twitched, his throat contracted, he started to blink.

He couldn’t believe someone had come for him.

And following act, he was crying. Quietly, in contained sobs, trying to disguise the sounds of pain with exhaustion. Nicaise was crying, draining every bit of his soul in each tear, and all Laurent could do was hold him through it.

Hold him, like a brother to a brother.

There was nothing he could say that would be adequate. Any word he could manage to muster would be dismissed by the cold reality and the marks of the abuse Nicaise had on his body.

The only thing he could do was be there. And it had to be enough, somehow, for both of them. It had to be enough to pull the pieces of this boy back together, even if it seemed almost impossible and undoable.

And Nicaise cried harder, and harder, and held onto him like he was about to fall off a cliff. Hard enough to leave bruises on Laurent’s skin, but he didn’t care. He was shattered—broken. Something Laurent would have wanted to prevent, something he had wanted to protect Nicaise from—he had failed, again.

But he could try, again.

And he would try as many times it was necessary until Nicaise was safe.

Because Laurent liked him. It was simple. Laurent liked him. He was stubborn and blunt and sometimes immaturity due to his own age got the best of him. He was rebellious; he liked to play challenging songs even if it meant murdering the chords in the process. And yet, perhaps all these aspects that would be seen as negative were the things that made Laurent appreciate him. Nicaise was young and honest but he was kind. He learned fast—faster than anyone.

And his talent was the equivalent of a starburst. Bright, too bright, and impossible to contain.

By coming into his life, Nicaise had given Laurent back something he thought was lost for good. He had given him something when he needed it the most.

A reason to believe in music again.

To believe in the violin, and the songs that once gave him so much pleasure. Believe that he was meant to be where he was, and that he could help someone excel in their most precious talent.

Believe that he wasn’t…the bad person he tried to convince himself he was.

When Nicaise let go off him, Laurent went to his room --a space with a single bed and a closet and nothing else-- grabbed a bag and packed as many clothes as he could, including his Charcy uniform and school books. Music books and guides, hidden underneath his bed.

Throwing the bag on his shoulder, he grabbed the violin case resting on a corner and helped Nicaise raise from the floor. Immediately, though, he fell back down and Laurent held him still.

"I can't walk," Nicaise said, frowning as he held onto the sink to steady himself, "I fucked up my foot."

"Is it broken?" Laurent asked, before kneeling down and touching Nicaise's left foot.

Wincing, "Don't think so."

"Probably twisted, then," Laurent said, "We'll check it when we get home."

"Home?" Nicaise asked.

Laurent looked at him, meeting his eyes on purpose, "Home.”

 

 

***

_ How lovely it could be, to play the violin. _

Laurent’s house was the same as when he had run away, hours earlier. There was no piano, anymore. No Damen, either. The unfinished box of donuts was still on the kitchen table, and Vivi was in a corner, sleeping – snoring, even. With a paw over his face and his back raising and falling with quick breaths.

It was rather funny. He’d never seen a cat snore before. And it seemed so ordinary he didn’t know how come he never thought of it before. How come it was so surprising, when cats were as alive as he was.

That was, of course, if he was still very much alive. He didn’t feel like it. For a bit he wondered if he had any broken ribs, if any bone or joint was irreparably damaged. He wondered, if by any chance, he was inside a perpetual nightmare. Like a novel by Stephen King.

The pain in his body was -- indescribable. He had no clue for how long he had sat down on the bathroom floor. He just remembered how his body ached in relief when he did, how his ears rang for one second and how he held his breath until, at some point, he heard the front door open and shut.

When his dad left, he knew he was somewhat safe, at least for an hour or two. He knew that if he wanted to keep himself alive a little longer, maybe reach his fifteenth birthday, he needed to act fast. But he couldn’t move, he couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t pain and that was eating up his brain.

So, he called Laurent. Because he didn’t know who else to call.

There was simply no one else he could trust.

And Laurent had come, surprisingly. After all the awful things Nicaise had said and done, Laurent had still found him. He had…taken him  _ home _ . He had carried him on his back all the way downstairs and into his car. And he had talked him into such a sense of security that he had dozed off for the whole length of the ride.

Part of him was debating whether or not to punish this vulnerability, but he was too tired to reach a conclusion just yet. Instead, he focused on keeping himself on his feet for as long as he could. Because it was very likely that from the moment he’d lay down, he wouldn’t get up in a good while.

Laurent, who could obviously read minds, tossed his keys on the table near the entrance and said, “Bath?”

Nicaise nodded, and together, somehow, they managed to make their way upstairs and into the bathroom.  Sitting on the toilet lid, he took his shirt off before being told, and Laurent treated his wounds. He disinfected and bandaged the cuts, cleaned the dry blood while the tub was filling up with hot water.

“I’ll see the bruises once you’re out,” Laurent said, “And the ankle.”

He shifted his position, his foot throbbing as he moved, “Where’s Damen?” he asked.

Quietly, Laurent removed the lid of a tiny flask and poured purple salts into the tub, the water was turning lilac and Nicaise watched, absorbed. He didn’t question Laurent any further for he suspected he wouldn’t get an answer. The water changing colours was distracting and relaxing enough. He felt as if though he could forget himself once he got in.

Turning off the tab, Laurent stood up from the edge of the bathtub and went very, very still. Like if he was balancing himself on a loose rope.

“I don’t know,” he said, finally, against the vapor clouds floating in the bathroom, “I would suppose he’s home.” And then, “Can I trust you won’t fall asleep and drown?”

“Can I trust you won’t come back with a kitchen knife and murder me?”

“Knives are not really my type of murder weapons; too messy. I was considering poisoning.”

Nicaise hummed in approval, “A classic.”

Laurent smiled. His lips curving gracefully upwards into a very shy, composed, and yet soft smile. Nicaise thought he liked it.

He liked it when Laurent smiled. It was the same feeling he got when he listened to him play. Or, that he used to, when he actually played. He missed it, Laurent’s music.

He missed it very much.

“Put your clothes in the laundry basket,” Laurent said, before closing the door after him.

As he was told, he put the rest of his dirty clothes in the basket before stepping into the tub. It was hot and it smelled like lavender. His hair had come to be long enough that the tips got wet as he settled, and he yawned before closing his eyes.

There was certain numbness in his position, even when he was in physical pain. A numbness coming back and forth like flashes of a defense crumbling down, accompanied by scenes of the past few hours of his life.

At some point, during the fighting and struggling, he had stopped thinking. With every new bruise, the echoes of the notes grew louder in his mind.

_ How lovely it could be, to play the violin. _

He stared down at his fingers in the water and flexed them, splashing and enjoying the sound of the weight of his hands sinking down. They were fine, besides some minor scratches, and that was all he really cared about.

His violinist hands…

If it ever happened,

If there was ever a time where he couldn’t play the violin anymore, he wouldn’t be able to…

No, it couldn’t happen.

It was the only thing he had.

He had no family and he had no friends and he had no dreams or goals that didn’t include music. Music was all he had. All he wanted.

So he had to win the Royal. Win the Royal, go as an exchange student to France and free himself from his father and his ever so miserable, toxic life. Become the musician he wanted, the musician with the power of changing the whole meaning of the song by a swift of the wrist.

He wanted to be…someone so different from who he was.

He couldn’t be Laurent.

No matter how much he practiced, their sounds were completely different. And the more he seemed to progress, the more his style drifted away from Laurent’s. They could play the same song and still both of their violins will produce different sounds. Different visions, summon different emotions.

Who did he want to be, then?

What kind of musician was he becoming?

And if he left…

If he won the Royal, that meant Laurent wouldn’t be his tutor anymore.

Biting his lip, he laid his head back against the tiles and closed his eyes. One, two, three, he breathed. An idea popped in his head like eureka. And even though it would not solve the puzzle, it might give him a clue of where the pieces were hidden.

He opened his eyes again, and stood up.

 

 

***

Laurent was making tea.

Russian Earl Gray, with a touch of lemon and several drops of valerian he didn’t bother to count. Might as well be a bit reckless about the dose of relaxing plants, considering his mental state over the past few hours.

He was making tea, and waiting for the sandwiches to toast. He didn’t feel like cooking, and it was too early to order take out, so the only solution was making sandwiches and hoping Nicaise liked the combination of ham and cheese with some tomatoes.

A voice startled him, suddenly, and he jumped slightly. He was falling asleep on the counter, almost.

“You’re making tea.”

Nicaise was watching him with his arms crossed on his chest. He was wearing a pair of black ripped jeans Laurent liked to wear in high school, and also—Auguste’s sweater. The forest green one Laurent had given him for Christmas once.

His heart didn’t hurt, more like it twitched, tightened for a moment and then relaxed, softly. Surprisingly, he wasn’t angry either.

He wasn’t sad and he wasn’t angry, but he did feel something that he couldn’t identify. And he wondered if it was the same feeling, the swelling of the heart parents got often when their children tried to walk in their shoes.

“Yes,” Laurent whispered and yawned.

Wrinkling his nose, “I don’t like tea.”

“Too bad,” Laurent said and raised up his head from the counter, “You’re going to drink it anyway.”

“I don’t have to do anything you say,” Nicaise said, but it wasn’t a protest. More like a fact.

“That’s true.”

“I could pour it down the sink.”

“You could.”

He blinked, and then frowned, “You’re acting strange.”

He sighed and poured the hot water on the pot, watching it turn a sepia colour and then slowly darker, leading to brown.

“I can’t make you drink tea if you don’t want to,” Laurent said, “I can imply that it is a good brand of tea, I can taste it and tell you about the flavour. I can recommend it and I can advise you, but I can’t make you.”

“You’re tired,” Nicaise said.

“I am. Sort of. I would say mentally torpid is a better phrase.”

“Oh.”

Laurent looked up at Nicaise, who was currently staring into the abyss and playing with one of his sleeves.

“How’s your foot?” He asked.

“Better,” Nicaise responded, still staring into The Nothing, “Hurting, still. But better.”

“I’ll bandage it after you’ve eaten.”

Nicaise’s eyes flicked to him fast, “Laurent,” he said, but then he didn’t continue.

“Yes?” he asked, as he poured the tea into his cup.

“I—“he swallowed and bounced his light brown curls off his face with a movement of his head, “I wanted to play with you. But…”

Carefully he put down the pot, “But?”

Nicaise sighed, loudly, and in a small voice he said, “There’s no piano.”

_ Ah. _

It was very rare when Nicaise balanced his words. In fact, he wasn’t sure it had ever happened before. Not in all of those months of lessons. Almost as if he was being considerate.

_ But you hate me, remember? _

Perhaps, they weren’t so different, after all.

Perhaps, Auguste had been right.

Laurent said, “But it isn’t the piano I play.”

Looking up, then, Nicaise understood. Laurent had chosen the same words Nicaise had said the first time they met.

Slowly, they both smiled.

“I’m a violinist,” said Laurent, “Like you.”

 

 

***

Cecil was completely out of tune, so it took him a while to make it sound like his violin again. It was a good moment to clean it, change the strings, bring it back to life. 

Like being reborn, or shredding your skin. Waking up from a deep slumber. 

The familiar warm on his shoulder and the smell of wood increased the beating of his heart. And it was like coming back home from a long trip. 

“You lead,” he told Nicaise, “I follow.”

Nicaise nodded, resting the violin on his neck, right under his chin. He took a breath and Laurent closed his eyes, waiting for the first note to resound. It was long, and higher than he had expected it to be. 

Recognizing it almost immediately, Laurent opened his eyes and stared at Nicaise who was grinning with pride. 

_ Hungarian Dance no. 5 _ was fast, and with two violins it seemed more like a race to see who’d get first to the end. So, Laurent changed the pace, mostly to annoy Nicaise, and instead of a running mess, the song became a duet. 

He followed, like an accompanist would, letting Nicaise develop the first melody by himself. And then, just as they were growing confident with the piece, he changed it, shifting the notes to those of the waltz of the _Sleeping Beauty_ , making Nicaise almost stop. He didn’t. Instead, he followed, like an accompanist would, even though he didn’t properly know the notes. 

Laurent smiled. It was another piece he had played in Charcy with the orchestra, and then never again. And it felt  _ good _ to play it, especially with another person. 

How lovely it was, to play the violin. 

How lovely it was, to play and feel no regret. 

Tired of following, Nicaise changed the song. And they kept going like that for a good while; challenging each other by shifting unexpectedly, until they didn’t have to think of what piece was it and who was leading and who was following. It reached the peak where they were driven by pure instinct, their talent overexposing the rest. 

They played Bach, and Brahms, and Kreizler and Liszt. They made mistakes and improvised and tried new techniques. Like a class, but between rivals. Between friends or brothers. 

They played until their arms and shoulders were burning and their legs could barely keep them standing. There was no rush, but at the same time, they couldn’t stop until every last bit of whatever it was that kept consuming them, was out of their bodies. 

Until the pain became satisfaction, and resentment acceptance. 

And fear was trust, and grief was healing. 

 

 

***

When they managed to catch their breaths, they sat on the couch. Nicaise had Vivi on his lap, petting him softly as Vivi purred and closed his eyes in an act of bliss. 

“You know,” Nicaise said, as Laurent bandaged his foot, “You are a good teacher.”

“I thought I would never hear those words from anyone, ever.”

“Me too.”

Laurent looked up to a smirking Nicaise, but said nothing in return. He focused on the task, making sure the swollen skin was well covered. After a while, Nicaise spoke again. 

“Are you going to play again?” And then, “Professionally, I mean.”

“I don’t know.”

“You should.”

“You sound like Damen.”

“It makes you happy,” Nicaise said, “Why deny yourself of something that makes you happy?”

He wondered why. There had been a reason, he supposed. There had been many, many reasons. But now neither of them seemed plausible. 

He didn’t want to, because it was painful. Because Auguste was dead and he was alive and that was the whole starting point of everything. 

But now, he wasn’t sure anymore. Playing made him happy, happy like when Auguste was with him. 

Maybe it was that all the things he wanted so desperately to forget where the ones that mattered most now, and he wanted to remember them. He wanted to remember everything. Treasure everything. Play the violin. Play with someone. 

“You tell me,” Laurent whispered.

“Maybe you’re scared,” Nicaise whispered, pulling playfully on Vivi’s whiskers, “Of being happy.”

 

 

***

_ Message from: Damen _

_ 5:27p.m. _

_ Hey. I wanted to do this over the phone, but you weren’t answering and I don’t think I can wait any longer. I care about you, Laurent. I really, really do. But I don’t know where we stand anymore, and I think it’d be better if we took some time. I need some time. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t let you keep hurting me, either. I don’t know what it is we’re doing right now, I don’t know what it is that I am doing right now, and I need to know. I desperately need to know. _

_ If you need anything, I’m only a call away. Take care. _

Staring at the screen, Laurent blinked several times and thought he might cry. It was something to be expected. But even though he wasn’t surprised, it hurt like hell. It hurt so badly he choked on his own breath as he tried to swallow down the lump on his throat.

Before he started to panic and made another mistake, he sat down on the edge of his bed and tried to breathe. It wasn’t working, but he had to try.

Was this…a break up?

Was he losing him – Damen, the person he had promised himself not to lose again, no matter what?

Was he losing him – like the piano?

Without even stopping to reconsider, he tapped Damen’s name on his screen and placed the phone on his ear. It rang a few times before disconnecting, so he tried again.

On the fifth ring, he picked up.

There was a moment of awkward silence, their breaths being the only sound audible. Laurent said, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Closing his eyes, he breathed, “I have things to tell you,” and then, “Things that you should've known a long time ago. But I can't. Not now.

“…Okay.”

“I just,”  _ I can’t lose you _ , “I need to know if...you'll be willing to listen.”

After a pause, Damen said, “I'll always listen. You know I will.”

He swallowed before he could speak, “I'm just afraid that you will leave again.”

_ Don’t leave. _

_ Don’t, please. _

“Laurent—“

“Don’t leave.”

Damen didn’t reply. So, he continued, “You need time. I understand that. But I will wait. I will wait till the end of the summer and even after that.”

Still, no answer.

“I care about you.  I don't want you to think I don't and I,”

_ I hate myself for it. _

Finally, Damen spoke again, "What you and I have is... it's really something, and unless you tell me directly that you don't feel the same then there's nothing you can say that will make me leave your life for good."

In a soft voice, Laurent said, "…I do feel the same way."

"Well, okay,” A laugh. Small, not very cheery, but still a laugh. Damen’s laugh. “This doesn't need to be more complicated than it already is, Lo."

"Damen," The nickname only tightened the lump on his throat. But he had to say it. If he didn’t, there’d be no going back.

If he wanted things to change, he had to change them himself.

If he wanted Damen to stay, he had to tell the truth. He couldn’t lie anymore. Not to him.

“I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I still am."

_ I love you. _

"This isn't going to work if you keep apologizing. I know you're sorry and you know I’m sorry, yeah?"

He nodded, even though Damen couldn’t see him, “Yeah.”

_ More than anything. _

“I’m not leaving. I just…need time to think.”

“Okay,” and then, “Nicaise is back.”

“Is he alright?”

“No. Not really. But I will help him.”

“Let me know if I can do anything.”

“Will do.”

“Laurent?”

“Damen?”

_ I’ll fix everything. _

“Thank you. For calling.”

_ I love you. _

 

 

***

The word was petrichor.

The scent of earth after the rain. He had been wondering whether that existed or not as he entered the gates of Charcy, almost exactly three years after his graduation. He had thought it would feel terribly different from what it actually was, like a nervous dropping of his stomach as he walked past the waterfall fountain and stepped on the grass of the courtyard.

In reality, it felt all very distant. Like if he didn’t belong to that world anymore, and there was nothing that connected him to it. Nothing but memories, and yet it felt as though he had been forgotten. Truth is, maybe that’s how it was supposed to feel.

When he was a student, Charcy had the particularity of being an oasis in the desert. An invisible dome that claimed you and trapped you for five years. Laurent couldn’t tell, in reality, whether he had enjoyed or detested his high school experience in the academy.

Perhaps a bit of both at the same time.

He crossed the courtyard, like he used to do when he was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years old.

The word was petrichor.

It smelled like rain, but the storm had just passed.

And as the choir sang and music students ran past him on their way to class, something inside of him began to smile.

And the faint notes of a piece he thought he’d never hear again reached his ears.

_ “We’ll play the notes of the days we spent together, until it reaches the other side. We’ll sing, always, freely, trying to reach the sky. We’ll sing, always, the anthem of our hearts.” _


	29. Petrichor | Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> As promised, a new chapter. Nothing much to say other than I hope you enjoy it since I certainly enjoyed writing it. Living without writer's block is such a blessing.   
> Thanks to Ellen, as always, for helping me so much and thanks to Kelly for betaing. Étude would be a mess of spanglish typos without you.   
> Thanks for all your sweet comments, kudos and support on my ko-fi page<3 I don't know what I did to deserve such kindness, really. 
> 
> See you soon!

“What is it that you can do, boy?”

Laurent looked up at the teacher, a man in his early thirties, with very dark hair and bright green eyes, like a cat. He stared down at him like he knew him. Like he knew things about Laurent that he hadn’t quite figured out himself yet.

His gaze was strong, intense, but he was smiling so calmly it was unsettling.

“My name,” he said, “Is Laurent de Vere. And I play the violin.”

The teacher’s smile grew wider. Immediately, Laurent hated him.

“Let’s see then,” he said, shuffling a few papers on his desk, “Care for a little demonstration?”

He did not. And in fact, he thought the little intimidating act the man was trying to pull out was mostly pathetic if not annoying. Nodding once, Laurent grabbed his violin from the case and took a deep breath as he placed her on his shoulder. He took his time, finding the correct posture while holding up his right arm gripping the bow.

The teacher watched him with very much attention, propping his head up with one hand. He asked, “What are you playing?”

What was it again? He hadn’t really prepared much. Auguste had been all over the place, excitedly jumping around the house due to Laurent’s audition to study in the same high school as him. Charcy Academy was a place made to nurture talents. Music was sacred, but even those with no musical talent were respected and treated with great honour as well. Regular students were varied, and to be admitted into Charcy, there either had to be something you could do extremely well or you had the potential to become someone exceptional, otherwise there was no way on earth you could get into Charcy.

_ Talk so much about elitism. _

It was true Laurent’s eyes had widened and sparkled when he had read through the music program they offered. First years seemed to have no time or space to breathe between the music lessons and the regular subjects, plus any elective they chose. It was true he had somehow fell in love with it – the idea of studying there, along with his brother.

And being able to play the violin every day, for hours.

But it was also true there was a part of him that was scared of hating it. Of someone making him hate music.

“Tchaikovsky,” Laurent said, “ _ None but the Lonely Heart _ .”

“Not very common for an audition, is it?”

What if he wasn’t able to love it properly?

What if music wasn’t able to love him properly?

It was, in the end, a five year commitment. He had had many chances to drop the violin before, and yet he hadn’t. He wasn’t very sure why, other than the possibility that he loved it. That he loved the feeling he got when he played; a tingling in his stomach, a burst of adrenaline. Like if he was supposed to play forever and never stop. Like he was meant for that only.

It was scary because it was strong, and it was hard to make the division between adoration and aberration when he was only twelve. 

Laurent replied by playing the first few notes. Usually, he’d have a piano accompaniment, but during auditions every musician had to play solo.  _ None but the Lonely Heart _ was a three minute long piece based on a poem by Lev Mei; one of those rare Tchaikovsky songs that he loved oh so dearly and wished to share with anyone.

Songs that were meaningful and private and so quiet in spite of the crying of the violin. Sometimes, Laurent would watch videos of people performing the same piece, over and over, to see if he could find the part where they varied from each other. See if he could find, in between the notes written by Tchaikovsky, that little spark of their soul that made them different from him and everyone else.

Sometimes, it was a movement of the wrist, or a minimal change in tempo. Or the quietness of the strings when they were supposed to be loud, and vice versa. Sometimes it was how they controlled the emotions of the instrument, holding it back from saying too much.

But, at it’s heart, it came down to how they made the violin cry. Usually it was a very distortional cry, rough and agonizing. And even though the musicians were experienced, and talented, graced with a flawless technique, Laurent wasn’t satisfied with their performances.

_ I would play it differently. _

_ None but the Lonely Heart _ was a melancholic lament. A self pitying sob, just as the poem was. Many people, including Placido Domingo and Eula Beal had sung their own versions of it. But they seemed to empty, so false, Laurent couldn’t finish listening to them.

So he opted for his own. He didn’t go for the fake grief and the  _ “poor me, I’m so sad and alone” _ but more for the disappointing feeling one gets after a bad choice, or the self chosen loneliness. His violin wasn’t bleeding down on the floor, crying desperately, but more like crying quietly.

The type of crying you do when you can’t even anticipate it coming. When suddenly you find yourself at this point in your chronology where you’re very tired and very lonely. And your tears are small drops, falling one by one on an empty hand – you can count them, even. It wasn’t the kind of sadness from losing a loved one or from being depressed; it was this strange numbness of hitting the same spot until it bruised.

Because you find yourself in these situations, unlucky situations, painful and lonesome, but you have no other choice but keep going.

Because sometimes you fall just by walking, and it’s unfair and stupid and you have a scar on your leg just from that. But you keep going.

Even when you wished things were different, and you constantly ask yourself why it happens to you. You keep going.

Even if you’re alone, you keep going.

Laurent played, tensing the strings with his fingerprints, ignoring the fact that he was being watched, analyzed, categorized, and evaluated. Ignoring, completely, that the results from this audition would change the fate of the next five years of his life.

And that he cared. He cared whether he was admitted or not. Deeply inside, he cared if people appreciated his music or not. He wanted to be…great, and to shut up all the voices of those who told him he was unimportant and talentless. He wanted to show them he could be exceptional by doing his own thing.

They could be exceptional, him and Eloise.

_ Don’t be nervous. _

_ Don’t worry, Laurent. _

He breathed, a shaky exhale as he finished. He let himself stare at Eloise as he gracefully put her down inside the case.

The teacher gave him another smile and gestured for Laurent to sit on a chair in front of his desk. He did, crossing his feet underneath the chair and focusing on the way his heart was beating – way too rapid.

“You play very well,” the man said, “You played the notes like the music sheet says, but it didn’t sound the same. Why is that?”

Laurent blinked, “You’re asking me why.”

Nodding, “If you don’t mind. You must have a vague idea why, or am I wrong?”

“I suppose it must have been my technique.”

The teacher smiled, almost to the point of laughing. There was amusement in his voice when he said, “No, your technique was perfect.” And then, “May I ask why you play the violin?”

That was an easy one…and yet it was not.

“Because I can’t not play.”

“What happens if you don’t?”

“I don’t know,” Laurent replied, “I haven’t tried. But I guess it would be a little like the poem.”

_ Alone and parted _

_ Far from joy and gladness _

“Why do you want to enter Charcy?”

“I thought the interviews were tomorrow, with the director.”

“They are. I’m just curious,” the teacher said, “I direct the orchestra here. Would you be interested in that?”

“I’ve never played in an orchestra before.”

“Might as well try.” He smiled, “Perhaps you’ll find you enjoy it.”

“What is your name?”

“Guillaume.”

“Are you French?”

“Are you?”

“Half.”

“Half, too.”

“What instrument do you play?”

“A bit of everything, I suppose.”

“In an orchestra?”

“Sometimes.” Professor Guillaume looked at him like he was putting together a puzzle in his head, “It has been a pleasure, Laurent de Vere, but I’m afraid I need to keep going with the auditions.”

“Thank you for your time,” Laurent said, standing up and grabbing his violin case. He was about to walk to the door when he asked, “If I get in, may I join the orchestra as well?”

“I believe so.”

He found himself smiling, a tiny bit. An orchestra would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? A challenge, almost. He was tired of the soloist competitions, the repetitive dullness of playing by himself. And many of his favorite pieces were meant for orchestras.

“Oh, and, Laurent?”

He turned around, shaking away his dreamy thoughts.

“Good song choice.”

 

 

***

Charcy hadn’t really changed in three years.

When Laurent was a senior, the association of parents and tutors had proposed a project to improve and reform the main buildings, which, after many meetings throughout the year, ended up becoming an expansion of the whole Academy. At the graduation ceremony of his generation, they had inaugurated two new buildings for music and regular students, apart from an indoor swimming pool, three audiovisual rooms, two auditoriums for the orchestra and the choir and the drama club.

Outside the library, they had agreed on adding chess board tables and students who wished to play were free to either bring their own pieces or ask for some in the library – a privilege Laurent would have wished to have when he was a student.

In spite of the ‘updates’ and the architecturall tweaks, Charcy hadn’t changed. The smell of pavement and fresh grass and expensive polished wooden furniture mixed with antique rocks and bricks hadn’t changed. The air –youthful and  _ leggero _ yet proud and conceited—was still the same. And it felt, somehow, like going back in time. It felt as if, closing his eyes, he could be back there. He knew every hall and every room, every hidden passageway, every vending machine around the corners of the main field.

He knew the order of the keys in the teacher’s room, and the lyrics to the school anthem that played every morning before classes. And he knew the strident sound of the bell ringing and the notes coming from the piano in the music room Auguste loved to play.

He was familiarized with Charcy as a whole and yet...

It had been a bit of a shock listening to his brother’s song as he walked in. Mostly because he had not heard it in years, but also because Auguste was dead. And if Auguste was dead, there couldn’t be another person who would lead a song he composed, could there?

Every time he reminded himself that Auguste was dead, no matter how many times a day he did, there would always be the tiny, tiniest hope that he would see him again. It never left, and the sound of his music made it stronger. He didn’t know if it was healthy or normal, but it was a light inside of him that refused to go away.

A false hope that fed off his nostalgia, like a bug, consuming him slowly. A flickering light in mid of the darkness – more unsettling than reassuring.

But there were, indeed, many persons who could play  _ The Anthem of the Heart _ , as he found out, opening the door to one of the music rooms and finding the choir and half of the orchestra, interrupting what seemed to be their rehearsals. Suddenly, the music was stopped. They were as shocked to see him as he was, which came out to be some sort of strange relief.

_ “Isn’t that…?” _

_ “That’s him, isn’t it?” _

_ “Laurent de Vere.” _

_ “The violinist.” _

_ “His brother passed away last year.” _

_ “He won the Royal when he was only seventeen.” _

Laurent made himself not react, not even a little. He stood there, a blank, unreadable expression on his face, and turned to his former music teacher.

“Well,” said Professor Guillaume, leaning an elbow on the piano, “It’s certainly been a while, Laurent.”

“Professor Guillaume,” he said, “I need to speak with you.”

The man was still the same as Laurent remembered, except for the fact that his hair was starting to turn gray on the sides. He still wore the same imperturbable smile, as if he knew what you were going to tell him before you opened your mouth. As if he knew the depths of your heart just by looking you in the eye.

The first time they had met, Laurent hadn’t liked him. Through the years, Laurent had learnt to appreciate him as a teacher, even though sometimes he was infuriating, like when he tried to urge peace between him and Aimeric.

Now that he was older, though, he could somehow understand Guillaume’s position. Especially because he himself was teaching, kind of. And it was terribly hard – even more with teenagers.

“By the way you interrupted my class,” said Professor Guillaume, “I figured as much.”

 

 

***

Was it normal? He wondered.

Sometimes he had dreams he was still in high school. In said dreams, however, he was thirteen, or fourteen, or fifteen. But never older, never a senior. Often, his dreams about Charcy included his brother and his friends, and while they were not precisely nightmares, it was still a bit concerning.

Was it normal?

Or was there anything he missed, anything his brain was trying to recover from the river of memories inside his psyche?

Finding himself sitting in Guillaume’s office was similar to those dreams, and the déjà vu went through his veins like a torrent of iced water. In the past, when he'd been called to this office, most of the times it was due to problems with Aimeric, or his attitude in general.

Now, three years after his graduation, he sat on that chair for entirely different reasons.

“I suppose,” Professor Guillaume said, sitting down, “that you’re here because of Nicaise.”

Carefully, Laurent said, “You know I’m tutoring him.”

“Yes. He told me. I found it strange at first, considering he was Auguste’s student. But, then again, it makes more sense this way, doesn’t it? Because you’re the violinist.”

Laurent debated whether or not to start directly, to say what he needed and avoid any sort of small talk and interaction with his former teacher. Now that he thought about it, Professor Guillaume had been the only teacher Laurent hadn’t sent to fuck himself all throughout his musical formation. Him and the Japanese girl he used to really admire.

They weren’t close, but Guillaume had been with Auguste. He knew how much his brother admired and respected each of his teachers. He esteemed them, in some cases even as friends.

Before he could speak, however, Professor Guillaume broke the silence, “How are you, Laurent?”

“I’ve been better,” he said.

Professor Guillaume gave him a sad smile, “I was at the funeral. But I didn’t…get a chance to give you my condolences.”

Because the conversation had taken the turn he had not wished for but had expected, anyway, he took the opportunity to ask, “You were—the students were playing… _ The Anthem of the Heart _ , weren’t they?”

“Indeed, they were.”

“Why?” That single word sounded painfully strained. He cleared his throat, “I thought—“

His teacher sighed, but didn’t avert his gaze. He was rolling a pen back and forth on the desk, “Before passing away, Auguste came to the school.”

Laurent felt it then. Not the air leaving him, but rather contracting his organs, threatening to implode them. He spoke through the pain, “He was helping Nicaise.”

“Yes, but after Nicaise was accepted, he came back.” He said, “Actually, he kind of showed up, out of nowhere, just like you right now. He said he wanted to donate his pieces to the school, so that any student at Charcy could make use of them. They are all very fond of that one, in particular.  _ The Anthem of the Heart _ .”

For a composer, the songs they wrote were always of the utmost importance. Every piece was a part of their soul. And yet, Auguste had given them all away. He had preferred it; donating them to the school so they would always be played and listened to rather than being abandoned among his belongings, once he passed.

Auguste had been dying, and he had worried about this. He hadn’t been able to walk properly anymore because of how weak his joints had become after the many sessions of chemo, but he had gone to Charcy, at some point. And he had probably sat here in the same chair Laurent was.

Auguste had been…in so much pain. And yet…he had said goodbye to everything and everyone he loved. He had not left them hanging, even though it was easier. It was easier to leave without having to say goodbye.

And Laurent wasn’t able to fulfill his wish and say it back.

_ Ah…but that happened once, didn’t it? _

_ I did that once, didn’t I? _

_ To Damen. _

He continued to be so selfish. So stupidly arrogant and self-centered.  __ He had taken that from both of them, the two people he loved and will continue to love most in this life.

He could almost hear him, in the back of his mind. Auguste.

_ “I am grateful, Laurent. Talent isn’t free, you must pay a price.” _

_ “I have loved every minute of being your brother.” _

Laurent hadn’t realized how important it was. How heavy and burdensome it would become to take people’s goodbyes. He hadn’t let them finish their cycles because he didn’t want to suffer their parting. And instead he had caused more pain, to them and himself.

He had never closed the cycles, and he had never let anyone else do it either. He had forbidden Aimeric from apologizing to him, and then he had committed suicide. He hadn’t let Jord talk to him when he needed, and now he was poisoning himself slowly. He hadn’t let Nikandros yell at him, and now they were not talking.

He hadn’t let Damen say goodbye when he needed to and now they were a mess.

And Auguste had died…and Laurent hadn’t played for him.

_ I see, that’s why. _

_ That’s how everything collapsed. _

_ That’s how we collapsed. _

Laurent had taken their words, their own personal songs, and buried them with his so he didn’t need to deal with them. He had decided for everyone else. And they had let him.

_ That’s why we’re falling apart. _

“Laurent?”

He snapped out of the trail of his thoughts, closing the door of his mind as he came back, “Sorry, you were saying…?”

“I was asking how I can help you” he said, “Regarding Nicaise.”

Laurent took a breath, “He’s in trouble…and I want to help him, but I…can’t.”

Professor Guillaume paused for a moment, “A few teachers and I have been following his medical record. He often asks for painkillers at the infirmary, but doesn’t let the nurse check him. Claims a headache each time.” Then, “Is that what you'd like to help him with?”

Nodding, “Most likely. I can’t do anything on my own because we have no relation whatsoever. I’m only… an unofficial violin tutor.”

“So you want the school to intervene,” Professor Guillaume said, clasping his hands together.

He clicked his tongue. “I’m checking the options we have before making a move. Whether the school is interested in the well-being of Nicaise or not, it won’t change the fact that I…I will help him. With or without your help.”

His teacher gave him a strange look. His features softened, and his voice sounded different when he said, “You have grown, Laurent.” And then, whatever it was that changed in him, turned back to how it was before, “I’m guessing you can’t tell me the full version of the story?”

“Not yet.”

“You do know that depending on what it is, I’ll have to get the authorities involved because Nicaise is a minor. A stubborn one, but only fourteen.”

“I know,” Laurent said. “I’m surprised you didn’t convince him to join the orchestra.”

His teacher grinned, “I was determined to change his mind, but he’s a soloist in nature. However, he’d be a great first violin along with Odette. We have a great violin section in this generation, actually. When you studied here, it was only you and Aimeric. There were more pianists than violinists. Now it’s practically the opposite. There are at least three first violins and five second violins. And violas, and cellos. The music section is at least double of what it used to be.”

“Competition must be hard.”

“There are always fights. But the orchestra helps them bond. Or so I like to think.”

They fell into comfortable silence. And Laurent thought it was a good opportunity to leave, although he wasn’t sure if he had managed to achieve what he wanted by going to Charcy. At least they knew of the existence of the problem, even if they couldn’t act yet. 

Step one. 

“Laurent,” Professor Guillaume said, “I was meaning to ask…”

Laurent nodded.

“The school is going to contact you rather soon but I wanted to let you know beforehand,” he bit his bottom lip before continuing, “Two of the students apparently took a summer music course with Auguste in the conservatory, and they suggested, considering he passed away, to make him a homage. Here in Charcy, with the songs he left for the school. We told them nothing could be done without your consent, but since you’re here now, I figured it was a good opportunity to talk.” 

“A homage?” 

“Yes. A small concert, possibly with the orchestra and the choir, parents and ex-alumni would be invited.” Sensing his silence, he kept going, “It is only if you agree, as I said, nothing has or will be done if you say no.”

“I…” His brain wasn’t functioning properly. There were no words to grasp, no clue of what to say, “I will think about it.”

An homage. For his brother. About his brother. With the songs he so dearly wrote and the school he loved so much. Laurent could try to imagine it, but it was too much so he made himself stop. 

It was reaching them. Auguste’s music was reaching people, like he had wanted it to. 

His brother’s dream was coming true, after all. 

He was loved by so many people, and missed even more. He had touched too many hearts to begin to count them. 

They wanted to make him an homage. 

And Laurent had to be there. He had to be part of it, too. 

He had to play for him, too.

 

 

***

Once upon a time, there was a boy who ran. He ran and ran until he couldn’t breathe and his mind was blurred by the images of everything he passed by. 

When everything started, he had a reason to run. And then as time kept its course, he slowly forgot what was it he was running from. But he was so used to it, and he didn’t know anything else, so he kept going for the fear he had of what would happen if he ever stopped. 

Even when he met people who made him wish to stop, the funny feeling on his legs would stop him from even considering so. 

In another land, far away from where he was, there was another boy who longed to run. But he couldn’t -- he didn’t know where to go. 

He had no reason to stay where he was, nothing and no one to love or who could love him. His life was dull, the ghost of the life he could have if he just ran. 

 “So,” Nicaise asked, “What are we doing for round three?”

Ever since Nicaise had moved in with him a few weeks ago, they had probably done everything but practice. Initially, they had focused on making the guest room of the second floor comfortable enough, and then they had settled with Nicaise’s Charcy routine. Apparently, he wasn’t used to eating breakfast in the morning and that was a habit Laurent was trying to change. However, it included the painful task of waking up early in the morning after staying up too late at night binge reading whatever he felt like to avoid his raising anxiety. 

He didn’t have any idea of what to do for the third round of the Royal.

Usually, he’d have a few songs in mind. But right now neither of them seemed suitable enough. He hated to say that they were all boring, when in fact they were classical masterpieces, but he wasn’t exactly sure why it all sounded dull to him. 

They needed something...rare. Something unique that Nicaise could play and add his own touch to without dismembering the piece. 

“Have we considered Tchaikovsky yet?” Laurent asked. 

Nicaise gave him a look, then rolled his eyes and nodded, “We have. But our options are heavily limited to Swan Lake or Sleeping Beauty and I really don’t want to play those. They’re very cliché, too.” 

Laurent was ready to protest when Nicaise added, “And yes I know you’re extremely in love with Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, but we need something else.”

“Your Russian pronunciation seems to be getting better,” Laurent commented instead, ignoring the calling out on his favorite composer. 

“What language did you take when you were in Charcy?” Nicaise asked casually. 

“Greek.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” He said, “What language did Damen take?”

“Latin. Or French, or Spanish. I don’t remember.”

Sitting up from the sofa, Nicaise whispered, “Have you talked to him?”

Laurent, who was currently sitting down on the floor indian style while changing the strings of Nicaise’s violin, turned to look at him, and then shook his head softly, “No.”

“It’s been more than a month now…”

“I know.”

“What are you waiting for, then?”

Laurent sighed, “Nicaise…”

“Don’t ‘Nicaise’ me. You’re both in love with each other. Tchaikovsky level and everything.”

“He asked for time and that is the least I can give him, after how badly I fucked up.” 

Nicaise didn’t protest any further, instead fixating his gaze on the ceiling and the chandelier that hung from it. 

“That looks like a very old thing,” Nicaise pointed.

“It probably is,” Laurent said. And then, “Okay, it should be ready now,” handing him the violin, “Try to tune it.”

Nicaise did. He grabbed the violin and smiled, then stuck his tongue out and furrowed his eyebrows while trying to turn the pegs, “You know...maybe we need something new.”

“New as in...contemporary new?” Laurent asked. 

“New as in, composing something new.”

“I’m not sure if that would be allowed.”

“I did my research; it is. As long as it follows the usual form of a classical piece, it’ll be accepted, whether it’s from a famous composer or not.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow, “You’re very efficient when you want to be, aren’t you?”

Nicaise grinned, “That’s part of my charm.”

“Right,” Laurent scoffed, “Tell me, then, Prince Charming, what do you want to do?”

“Let’s compose something,” Nicaise said, eyes pleading. 

It burned on his tongue, the lie. He couldn’t…

Laurent weighed both outcomes. He weighed the lie and the truth -- which would be more painful? Telling Nicaise another lie to protect himself from the pain that it would cause to accept the fact that in the past he had indeed composed. 

That the supposedly only composer in the family was gone. That all of his family was gone. And even when he once wrote songs, he wasn’t sure he could do it again. 

_ If you lie now, you’ll lie again.  _

_ If you do this now, you’ll go back to what you so badly hate. _

_ If you lie to him, you’ll lose him too.  _

Loving someone meant also telling the truth. Loving someone meant…

“I,” Laurent licked his lips and sighed, “I haven’t composed in years.”

Nicaise shrugged, but his eyes shone brighter, “I haven’t composed anything in my life.”

“It might not be good.”

“So?”

“You do want to win, don’t you?” Laurent asked. 

Nicaise stopped. Laurent watched him curiously, like one who watches a small cat going on hunting position.

“I do want to,” Nicaise said, with a confidence in his words Laurent hadn’t heard before from him. “But if I don’t...then that’s okay.” 

The boy who wanted so desperately to run away, the one who had every reason to do so, and the boy who ran, the one who never looked back, met. 

Both of them had been broken by the people who were supposed to protect them from harm. Both of them had been gasping for air, asking for help, drowning within themselves. Both of them violinists, both of them alone in the world. 

The wave of pride and affection Laurent felt were stronger than they should have been. The sense of security, the joy he felt of seeing Nicaise’s bruises slowly disappearing. 

Laurent didn’t want Nicaise to leave, and he didn’t want to leave him. But he wasn’t sure if he should stay. He wasn’t sure if he could do it. 

He was tired of running. Of leaving people behind. But he couldn’t see any other possible ending. He couldn’t see beyond that desire. 

Laurent smiled, hiding the pain of loving the kid as if it was his own brother and the fear of ever having to lose him. 

“Okay,” he said.

“Are you okay?” Nicaise asked. Laurent nodded. After a moment of silence, Nicaise said, “Is it because you went to Charcy?” 

“No. They...I didn’t tell them everything….I just want you safe, Nicaise.”

Nicaise responded by sliding down from the couch to the floor and hugging him, hard enough that they almost fell. Laurent tensed a bit, and then relaxed into it, hugging Nicaise back. It was strange...hugging someone so young and yet feeling as if he was the one being comforted.  It was perhaps the first time. 

He liked it. Hugging. 

“Let’s compose a song,” Nicaise whispered.

“Music can’t be the answer to everything,” Laurent repeated, like a mantra. Hoping to be proven wrong. He wanted to be proven wrong. 

“You’re trying to find logic where there is none.”

“Wise words for a fourteen year old.”

“How did you convince Auguste to let you have a piercing?” 

“Why is that relevant now?”

Nicaise touched his ear, “Because it is.”

Pulling away, “I did it behind his back.”

“Did he get mad?”

Laurent couldn’t hide the hint of a smile, “He was furious. We used to tell each other everything, he said he would of given me permission eventually.”

Nicaise smiled too, “Why did you keep it a secret?”

“I made a mistake,” Laurent whispered, “I made tons of mistakes.”

“Everyone fucks up.”

“My uncle,” Laurent started, “He abused me, when I was a child.”

_ There’s no going back now.  _

He rolled up his sleeves, letting Nicaise see the now faint marks of a cigarette burn hidden in a blind spot in his arm. 

“After my parents died, he moved in with us. I would tell Auguste about the beatings, and he would stand up to him for me. Eventually, my uncle stopped and for a minute I thought that was it.” Swallowing, “But it only got worse.”

“My Uncle sexually abused me until I turned fourteen. Auguste never found out, and then he won my custody in court. I never told him the rest….it became a secret. My first, to him. I got my ears pierced that year.”

_ And once I began, I couldn’t stop. Lying.  _

_ Collecting secrets. _

“And you know, Nicaise, the thing is...I wish I had.” he said, even though his voice was breaking and his hands trembling, “I wish I had told him.”

And finally, the boy stopped running. 

 

 

***

_ Message to Damen:  _

_ How are you? _

Deleted.

_ I miss you. _

Deleted.

_ Can I see you? _

Deleted.

_ How are you? _

Deleted.

_ I think I want to compose again. _

Deleted.

_ I think I want to do music again. _

Deleted.

_ I’m sorry. _

Deleted.

_ I love _

Deleted.

_ Hey. _

Deleted.

 

 

***

There was something beautiful about music.

Perhaps it was the way it came back to us, in one way or another. The way it could make our hearts skip beats and our lungs lose all air. And how it made our eyes fill with tears and believe we could do impossible things.

But what was more beautiful and more important was the way music could heal.

Music wasn’t the monster under his bed, and it wasn’t the tool of his own destruction. It wasn’t a ghost of his failures, and it wasn’t the source of his pain.

Maybe it had been easier to make music his enemy, for a while. Blame it for everything that didn’t go right in his life so he didn’t have to love it. Because loving hurts, the good kind and bad kind of hurt.

Loving and losing go hand in hand like remembering and forgetting.

Laurent sat there, on the edge of his bed, staring at the nightstand. Inside the second drawer, locked with key, were the last few bits of his hope; a broken music box, with a loopy cursive L drawn on the wooden lid, a broken violin gifted by his parents, and a notebook filled with songs he never let anyone hear.

Five years ago, he had locked them inside believing they were the evils of his personal pandora’s box. Turns out, in the end, he was wrong.

He had been simply wrong, all along.

The key was in the same spot it had been during all those years; hidden inside his favorite book of poems. On the tenth page, resting gently between two paragraphs, there was a small, thin silver key.

_ You go on a trip, _

_ Like a lost kid. _

_ Looking to escape _

_ And finding, instead. _

_ You go on a trip, _

_ Like an errant spirit. _

_ Seeking forgetting _

_ And instead, remembering. _

_ You go on a trip, _

_ Like a gentle breeze. _

_ Trying to reinvent yourself _

_ Just to end on the same place. _

He wondered if this had been the final scene, from the beginning. If this was the way things were supposed to be. That if he opened it now, all the evils would come back inside, and he’d take out the remnants of his past.

_ Author, is this it? _

_ Is this what you wanted me to see? _

_ Is this how I get to solve things? _

He read the poem again, and swallowed hard as he put the key in the hole and turned it until it clicked. One, two to the right. Then, it was opened.

Laurent imagined, for a moment, how it would be. If instead of words there were pictures, and his life was a movie, how it would happen. If the moment he pulled the drawer out, there would be some kind of light coming out or a breeze pushing him away.

None of that happened.

_ Remember to breathe. _

He did, he breathed. And in one swift movement, faster than his brain could analyze, he pulled out the drawer.

They were in the same place, in the exact same position he had left them in. The violin on top of the notebook, and the music box next to it. Carefully, he took them out, one by one, leaving the music box last.

_ It’s okay. _

He felt himself gasp, quietly, and his vision blurred. He tried to fight it, but he couldn’t hold it in anymore. It had been too much, too long.

After all, the war was over.

The fight of his life, the chess match against his own heart, was over. He didn’t need to hold it in anymore.

He didn’t need to swallow it down.

He was over hurting himself and hurting everyone else. He was over picking pride over his own well-being.

Slowly, Laurent let himself cry.  It wasn’t grief, or anger, but relief. The pandemonium inside of him was set free. The pandora’s box monsters were no longer his.

_ I’m back. _

Clutching the music box to his chest, like he used to do when he was younger, he looked up at the ceiling and the snapped his eyes shut. He let the tears roll, all of them, and felt his chest heaving with a small laugh.

“I’m back,” he said, not sure to whom.

_ I’m back, Auguste. _

…

_ Not yet. _

He didn’t realize there was something else inside the drawer. At least not until he was ready to close it again – empty, this time. Discarded to the bottom, there was a white envelope. Probably fallen from his composing notebook.

He picked it up and closed the drawer, then sat back on the floor, with his legs crossed and his back resting on the side of the bed.

And he didn’t realize what it was until he was already reading the first few lines.

_ Dear brother, _

_ When we were children, I made you a promise. In fact, I suppose it’s fair to say that throughout all of our lives, Laurent, you and I, we’ve made plenty of promises to each other. We used to swear in the name of the King, with our hands on your plastic crown. Do you remember that? You’ve always liked those stories. Stories of Royalty and war, Princes and Castles and ballrooms. Galloping horses and allies forces, with loyal guards and a romantic arc. _

_ In another life, little brother, I’m sure you were a Prince. In another world, one inside the pages of the books you like to read. _

_ When you were born, Laurent, I swore to protect you with my life. I swore I’d keep you safe and happy. But then, in the end—I failed. The years we spent with uncle, the years that he spent abusing you, no matter how hard I tried to keep him away from you – I’m sorry. _

_ You asked me once, to promise you that we’d play music together forever. That we’d never stop. _

_ For a while, I had avoided writing this letter to you. For a while, I thought I wouldn’t have to. In the end, I was wrong. _

_ If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. _

_ I broke my promise. _

_ I hope that by the time you open this, my last few words to you, it’s not too late. _

_ If you’re reading this, Laurent, it means you opened the drawer. And I can’t even begin to tell you how proud I am. I know that opening that drawer was possibly be the hardest moment of your life, next to my death. _

_ And I am also sorry for breaking your trust and opening it, too. But you see, I had to leave you something. All through your life I’ve tried to be the best older brother I can be and guide you, but once I’m gone you will be on your own and I don’t want to continue down that path. _

_ I know life is not fair, Lo. I know that is cruel, and it hurts you even when you have done nothing wrong. But believe me when I say that it’s worth it. It’s worth every risk, every tear. Because it gave me the chance to meet you, to be your brother. _

_ Because even when I feel the worst, and I’m dying, you’re here with me, fighting the doctors, fighting the illness by my side. And believing I might have another chance. _

_ Even when I wish this was over already, you smile when I tell awful jokes, you laugh when I lose at UNO, and then I think that if I could see that smile for the little time I have left, I’d have no regrets to take with me when I leave. _

_ I don’t want you to have any regrets either. _

_ So, because I am myself and myself is a very determined person, I took the liberty to prepare a bucket list for you: _

  1. _Smile more, Lo._
  2. _Be yourself – not the ice cold person you’re striving to be, but the warm, sweet person I know you are._
  3. _Call your friends. Make amends with them. It’s going to be hard and awkward, but I’m sure Jord will appreciate it. I think everyone will appreciate. Even me, wherever I might be._
  4. _Play more. In both senses of the word. Play more, Laurent. Be childish, be silly. Have fun. Play music, feel it shaking your bones. Classic or modern – I’ll be listening._
  5. _Take a walk. Take millions of walks. Just because you can. Just because you’re healthy and functional, just for the sake of having legs – walk. And jump, and swim, and dance._
  6. _See the world. Or as much of it as you can. Travel to all the places you’ve read so much about, try the food they describe in so much detail. Collect those stupid meaningless tickets of the subway and the paper wraps of the chocolate bonbons you like so much. Make memories._
  7. _Apologize when you need to._
  8. _Fall in love. (Call him. Please, Laurent. Call him.)_
  9. _Study something you actually give two fucks about. Promise me. Don’t make yourself unhappy with no other reason than being stubborn. Play a sport, join a cult, whatever – but enjoy it._
  10. _Live. But not for me, or for anyone else. Live for yourself, Lo. And let me go._



_ Please, let me go. _

_ Maybe you’re reading this ten years after my death, or ten days, or an hour. Whenever it might be, I’m asking you to let me go. _

_ And I know, I know what you’re thinking and I know you don’t like it but it is not the same thing as forgetting me. I’m going to be selfish and ask you not to forget me, and I’m going to be even more selfish and ask you to let me go. Because my time is over, and I don’t want to take part of yours too. I’ve had my share and it was amazing, but now it’s your turn to have it. _

_ Ah, it seems all I can do is boss you around. Old habits die hard. _

_ One last thing. _

_ The étude – I wrote it for you. For you, about you, I’m not quite sure myself. I didn’t have enough time to finish it. I thought that I could convince you to play with it. I thought that I could help you. You’ve been suffering for a long time and no matter what I do, you’re still in pain. And I’m so infinitely sorry. _

_ Sometimes I wonder... _

_ Had I played you this last étude, would everything have been the same? _

_ You can throw it away, or keep it. Or do whatever you want with it. It’s yours. _

_ It’s fine, Lo. You’ll be fine. _

_ There are many things I could add, but I won’t. None of them seem important enough and yet they all are. Like, for example, the day is pretty nice today. October is coming, you should wear a scarf. There’s frozen food in the fridge, don’t blow up the house, one of the nurses made a bad joke about police chickens; you know…stuff like that. _

_ I love you, Goodbye; I’ll see you. _

_ I love you. _

_ Thanks for making my life extraordinary. _

\-           _ Auguste. _

The only sound in his room were the hiccups, and how he struggled to regain control of himself. He was shivering, shaking uncontrollably, there were not enough pretty words to describe what Laurent was going through. Like being reborn, but this time without a brother.

Along with the sheet of paper came a Polaroid picture. Auguste and himself stood side by side holding two identical popsicles underneath the lemon tree in the backyard.

“I love you,” he said, and then louder, “I love you, Auguste.”

_ Even if you’re dead, I love you. _

_ Even if you cannot hear me, I love you. _

And loving meant letting go. 


	30. Canone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. It's been a while.
> 
> Here I am, once again, with a new Chapter.  
> Okay, I have to be honest, I'm kind of nostalgic already. As you can see, the Chapter count has been updated. Yes, only three more and it's over. Maybe that's why it's taking me so long to finish -- I don't want to let this story go. 
> 
> Two more and an Epilogue. However, if we're lucky enough, there's an extra Chapter I want to add, that would make the final count 34. But I don't promise anything. 
> 
> I hope you like this. I'm not very convinced myself but I believe at this point you know me well. As always, thanks for all the comments and kudos (and birthday messages in June!), you're all awesome. And if you've been here from the beginning, almost one year ago, then let me tell you I definitely l o v e you. 
> 
> Thanks to Kelly for betaing (and reassuring me, and motivating me, and being incredible) and Ellen, who's still in Australia but continues to be a huge part of this. 
> 
> P.S. I added more songs to both the modern and classical playlists.  
> P.S.2. I need to choose a scene to translate into Spanish as a sample. I thought it'd be nice if you all helped me by telling me your favourite, if you feel like it.  
> P.S.3. Depending on how much you like this story, I have very exciting news for you. But I don't think I'm allowed to say them here. You know where to find me. *winkwinks*
> 
> Enjoy!<3

Everything I have.

_ Everything? _

Everything.

_ Your heart, then. Give me your heart. _

If I do, will you be my violin?

_ I’ll be your best friend. _

How do I give you my heart?

_ When you play, think about the thing that you love most in the world. _

Auguste?

_ No, it can’t be a person. _

Why not?

_ Because you’re you, and your heart can’t depend on anyone else. _

Then how do I know what I love most in the world?

_ Think about what makes you the happiest. _

I don’t know, Eloise.

_ Think, Laurent. What makes you so happy you feel like you can reach up and touch the sky? _

 

 

***

_ Message from: Laurent _

_ Hey. I know you asked for time, and I know I said I would wait, but I really need to talk to you. Do you think we could perhaps meet anytime this week? _

Damen stared at the message, clueless of how to respond, as he set down the wooden piece he was working on and lowered his goggles.  Did he want to see Laurent? After a month – well a little bit more than a month, in reality – of focusing on himself, something he rarely did, Damen thought that perhaps it was about time.

There was a part inside of him that wanted to avoid it, the reencounter. But then, another part which was way bigger and stronger was desperate to see Laurent again. He was in love with him. So deeply, helplessly in love with him, and that hadn’t changed with the passing of the days. In fact, he could say that it had grown.

He wanted to see him.

He wanted to hold him and kiss him, and tell him everything he didn’t want but needed to hear.

Damen loved Laurent with a craziness that was only allowed in fiction; novels wondrously written to make you believe in that kind of passion, even if you’ve never experienced something similar before.

It was the kind of love only allowed in novels where heroes come home and knights go on quests to save their one true love. Where the two main characters end up together because they are meant to be together, and no matter how much they fuck up, they always find their way back to each other somehow; through betrayal and heartbreak, separation and grief.

Damen loved Laurent more than he could ever love someone else. He loved him with the passion of a musician, with the strength of a violinist and the fervor of a listener.

For years, the one person his heart always came back to was Laurent. Even when they weren’t speaking to each other, and even when Damen found people who made him feel a fraction of what Laurent had, even when he was still hurt over the past, to the point of it being ridiculous.

Yes, ridiculous.

How he could love a person like that?

And yet, the thing was, Damen wasn’t a dragon-slayer knight, mounting a white steed to defend anyone. And Laurent wasn’t a Prince in despair who needed to be rescued. Laurent was, after all, imprisoned by himself. And as much as Damen loved him, there were things he couldn’t touch. And his villains, his demons, were part of that.

Almost eight months after Auguste’s death, Damen realized he had made a huge mistake. Because when he had come back from Ios, Laurent was so depressed he was making himself ill. And Damen was so desperate to help him that he thought saving him from himself was the right thing to do. He had thought he could be enough to save Laurent, that somehow the love he had for him could be enough to mend everything that was broken, including their hearts.

But it wasn’t like that. Grief couldn’t be healed with love, but with acceptance. And patience, and honesty. And it had been selfish to think they could love each other properly when neither of them was done mourning. When neither of them bothered enough to question the other’s needs but rather took them for granted.

Like dancing in a ballroom, but out of sync. Stepping on each other’s feet but continuing to sway, anyway. It was far from what it was supposed to be.

And even when they had shared an intimacy that went beyond comprehension, they couldn’t be…a couple, unless certain things changed. Unless…

What a keyword that was.  _ Unless _ . He wanted to say that he didn’t know what that unless meant, but unfortunately he could feel it in his stomach. It was an awful emotion:  _ unless you open up to me, unless we’re both sincere, there’s no way for us. _

_ Hearts need time like music boxes need to be winded up before playing a tune. _

Damen sighed and ran a hand through his hair before turning his attention back to the task. The music box on the desk in front of him wasn’t new. It was one of the many failed attempts he had thrown away when trying to make Laurent’s for his sixteenth birthday. At first, Damen was only curious to see if he could make it work, and then it had become a personal quest to do so.

The clockwork mechanism wasn’t quite right, and although the box in itself was pretty good for being seventeen years old, he decided to remake it completely while keeping the original design.

Damen took the wooden piece – which was intended to be the lid– and blew the dust off of it, then carefully but with enough strength, fit it into place. Once assembled, he took it in his hands and balanced the weight a few times, then winded it up.

Upon opening it, the box played a playful version of Bach’s  _ Minuet in G _ , which had been one of the songs his mother liked to hum around the house when he was a kid. It was beautifully peaceful and eased his torturous thoughts a bit.

However, as he listened to it, he thought that it was a bit strange how easy it was for him to arrange songs for his music boxes. As a teenager, at some point he had felt out of place while studying in Charcy. It was true not everyone attending the Academy was a musician, or could make music whatsoever, but the people he was closest with were related to music in one way or another. Even Nikandros, who had a rebellious phase in which he hated every activity that wasn’t eating and sleeping, used to play the drums in a band.

He had felt like if they all could speak except for him and he was reduced to listening.

And then, he started to make music boxes. Mostly for Laurent, then just because he liked it. It kept him occupied, body and spirit; it gave him…a purpose, sort of. And he made many, but only ever gave two away, Laurent’s, and now more recently, Auguste’s.

The rest of them were stacked up on his father’s basement.

Damen groaned and decided he had enough dwelling on his problems for the day. Now he needed a break. And a drink, preferably. And some sleep. He had been in the workshop all day.

But before that, he replied.

_ Message to: Laurent _

_ Where do you want to meet? _

 

 

***

Hidden somewhere deep into the park, there was a fountain.

For Damen, the peculiarity of this fountain was the fact that he could never seem to find it when he needed to, and yet stumbled into it whenever he wasn’t searching. He could remember where it was – across the shortcut Laurent liked to take when going back home, close to the gazebo they both liked so much. But every time he turned a corner and thought that was it, he was mistaken.

The fountain was nothing but ordinary white marble with the statue of a naked woman on top. There were always blooming flowers and birds chirping, but since it was placed in a cul-de-sac, it was a place for privacy more than anything else.

He failed twice before finally finding it, and when he did, the first thing he saw was the shining of golden hair against the scarlet red of the blooming roses from the bushes surrounding the fountain.

Damen stopped, carefully breathing so as not to not disturb him. Laurent’s back was turned to him, his nose buried in the petals. The sound of water hitting water was the only thing between them. Laurent looked like the spectrum of someone who comes back from war; the exhaustion and knowledge of it. His movements were poised and graceful as they always were, but there was something more into it. Damen could feel it, somehow. Not sure if that was it, a feeling,  but rather an instinct.

He licked his bottom lip and sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, before saying, loud enough for Laurent to hear, “Tonight I can write the saddest lines.”

Laurent turned around, then. His eyes shot through Damen’s heart, a pair of sapphires digging into flesh. They were brightly stunning, filled with a fire Damen hadn’t seen in a long time, perhaps years. The piercing stare of the violinist he had fallen for. He said, “Write, for example, "The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance."”

“Tonight,” Damen swallowed, “I can write the saddest lines.”

“I loved him,” Laurent continued, “And sometimes he loved me too.”

“Hello,  _ Vicomte _ .”

“You came,” Laurent said.

Smiling, “Of course I did.”

“You’re late.

“I got lost.”

“I think,” Laurent said, walking towards him, “I did too.” And Damen didn’t know whether he was talking about that precise moment or if he was referring to the entirety of it.

“How are you?” Damen asked, sitting on the edge of the fountain. Laurent followed.

“I’m good,” he said, smiling a little. “How are you?”

“Good,” Damen replied, “I’ve been working.”

“Are you still helping your dad at the factory?”

Shaking his head, “No, I–I’ve been doing my own thing. I have this...sort of project, but I’m not sure if it’s going to work out.”

“Why not?” Laurent asked.

“Because it’s...a bit of a dream.”

“And you don’t believe dreams can work out?”

After a pause, Damen admitted, “I used to.”

Laurent whispered, “What changed?”

“One of them died.”

"You know,” Laurent started, “I found out the other day that dreams do work out. Just not the way we want them to. People believe dreams never come true because they are not prepared for the sacrifice they require."

"To get what you want," Damen said, understanding, "You need to give something up."

"Auguste gave his life to music. And even after passing away, his dream didn't die,” Laurent looked at him when he said, “So I think it’s a little early to kill yours.”

Perplexed, Damen blinked, “Who are you?”

Laurent smiled, “I don’t know.” And then, “But I know who I want to be.”

“Laurent, I–”

“I owe you an apology. No, I owe you more than one. I...invited you here because I need...to make things right.”

Damen didn’t know how to respond. He hadn’t seen Laurent like this in years; as if he was burning on the inside, stubbornly determined to accomplish a task. His spirit emanating fury. Like one of those precious angels who announce the apocalypse. Just like Auguste had been once. It seemed as though these brothers were capable of shining to the point of it being blinding.

They were so similar. So painfully similar. And he was sure that everyone who had come to love both of them knew it was, sometimes, astounding.

“Okay.”

Laurent stood up and paced. He bit his lip and sighed, then his eyes landed on Damen again. Damen didn’t dare say a word, instead just waited.

“I love you,” he said, softly.

_ I love you. _

It echoed inside him like a heartbeat. 

_ I love you _

Those three words threatened to turn his world upside down. It was the first time Laurent had said it to him. It was the first time, and he felt as though he would either start laughing or crying hysterically because it was too much at once.

He made himself focus, though, and managed to catch up with Laurent’s words, “I’ve loved you since we were children. And all my life I’ve thought I would never let you find out. I thought it wouldn’t be more than what it was, just a sharp pain in my chest. You were never just Auguste’s best friend; you were mine too, however indirectly. Every time I needed you, you were there. Even after how much I’ve hurt you, you’re still here, and for a while I hated you for that. I hated that you keep on ruining my strategy, that I cannot push you away like I wish to.”

Damen’s heart was beating oddly, “Why do you want to push me away so badly? Why can’t I make you...happy?”

Staring at him, “Because you make me happy is that I...just.” he paused, “I wanted to protect you. I thought you would be better off without me in your life to ruin your happiness. That day in Charcy I thought...we would move on and forget about each other and even though it broke me in half I believed I was doing the right thing. So I lied to you. And you didn’t believe me so I broke your heart.”

“I was afraid, terrified of everything I was feeling all the time. Even when some of those emotions were good, the intensity was the same of those that were bad. I felt out of balance and I didn’t know how to deal with the world when everything overwhelmed me. You were–still are the best thing in my entire life but at the time you were equal to also the worst thing. I couldn’t have you–I thought I didn’t deserve you or anyone. And I was playing against myself when I let you kiss me and I loved it but hated that I did.”

He felt out of breath. The puzzle that was Laurent was rearranging itself inside his head, but a piece was missing. And he had this terrible feeling that he didn’t want to find out what it was, “Did I ever do anything to hurt you?”

Shaking his head, “No. You were kind, and honest. And I wasn’t. And you fell in love with me and I was both blissful and miserable.” A sigh, and then, Damen could notice his hands trembling slightly, “My uncle...he tore me apart in a way I thought irreparable,” he said, and his voice broke a little. Then, steadier, “He sexually abused me. Since he moved in with Auguste and me until I turned fourteen and Auguste won my custody in court. Omission of truth, and no one found out,” Laurent whispered. “And that single lie...became a million more. I thought I could cover it, hide it or make it go away with time...but I couldn’t. It will never go away and...He made me feel like I was anything but worthy of anyone’s affections. Not even my own brother’s.”

“Laurent,” Damen whispered and tried to reach for his hands, “Please, you don’t need to continue.”

Laurent let him, and squeezed his hands tightly. He looked down to their feet, on the verge of tears, “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I broke your heart. I’m sorry for selling the piano and I’m sorry for making you believe you were not important. I’m sorry I did to you what he did to me. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye when you left for college. I’m sorry I didn’t support you, I’m sorry I didn’t listen when I should of. And I’m sorry I broke the music box.”

“The music box?”

Pulling away, Laurent reached into a backpack Damen hadn’t noticed was resting against the fountain. He took Damen’s hand gently and pressed a small wooden box, a broken music box with Laurent’s initial on it.

“The one I made for your birthday.”

“It was an accident. It fell off my nightstand and I couldn’t...we couldn’t fix it. Auguste tried many times, but I guess it’s not possible.”

Damen examined it carefully, “You could have told me, I could have made you another one.”

“Yes,” Laurent said, “But I wanted that one.”

Looking up, their eyes met. And suddenly they were back to a classroom, and a backyard, and a small coffee house, and under the shade of a tree, and almost kissing in a hall, and a gazebo, and every single moment in which they had felt as though they were music. A song, two harmonies meddling into one.

And Damen realized that no matter how many times their scenery changed, and how many times their soundtrack messed up, they always ended up in the same place.

“You…can help me fix it, if you want,” he said, “Maybe if we try hard enough, we could make up half of what it was before. But it won’t be easy.”

“Damen. This has never been easy.”

“I’m sorry that sometimes I can’t understand you.” Damen whispered and he was aware of his voice breaking and the tears leaving his eyes, “And that I can’t find a way to help you even when I want to. I’m sorry that sometimes I invade your space, even if I don’t mean to. I’m sorry that I blamed you for the piano. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you and Auguste needed me the most. I’m so sorry, Laurent. I’m sorry you had to go through so many things alone.”

Laurent saw him, but Damen felt as though it was the first time in eight months where he really, actually, saw him. His gaze wasn’t somewhere else, his attention wasn’t diverted to a thousand other things inside his head. He was there. Laurent wasn’t small fractions of what he used to be, he wasn’t the broken crystalline mess Damen had met eight months ago.

It was almost as if he was…

He was…back.

Back from wherever he had hidden his heart so many years ago. Back from wherever he went to avoid the pain of losing everyone he loved.

“You’re back,” he found himself whispering.

“Sorry,” Laurent said, and his eyes shone with tears that he didn’t hold back, “I’m late.”

“No,” he cleared his throat, “You’re right on time.”

Laurent smiled. It was genuine and loving, apologizing and forgiving at the same time, “You’re crying.” And then, “I hate it when you cry.”

“You’re crying, too.”

“How observant.”

“Well someone’s still an asshole.”

That made Laurent laugh. Tilting his head back, he laughed openly, and Damen watched how droplets from the fountain fell on his hair.

“I love you,” he whispered, because that was the only thing left to say. The one thing Damen had wanted to say for a while now, but that Laurent didn’t want to hear. “I love you, Laurent.”

“Good,” Laurent said, “Because that’s good, isn’t it?”

Smiling, Damen stood up, “It is very good.”

Laurent watched him curiously for a minute before saying, “You cut your hair.”

It had become bothersome to work with it. As long as it was, not even a bun could prevent it from falling on his face. So he had cut it. “I did. Do you not like it?”

His lips were pressed together in a thin line, and then changed slightly, almost into a pout. But because he was Laurent, this never came to be, “I liked your curls,” he said, quietly.

“Yours is long,” Damen mentioned. Chin length at least.

“I think I’ll keep it long for a while.”

“Can I hug you?” Damen asked. Laurent nodded.

It was so comforting. Laurent’s body was warm and his hair silky soft. The nape of his neck smelled like one of the many colognes he insisted on wearing, and he held him back tightly. Like he was afraid Damen would disappear under his touch.

For the first time in their lives, there were no lies between them. No secrets, no misunderstandings and indirects.

For the first time, there were only their truths. And Damen figured it out: it wasn’t that loving was healing, but the other way around. Healing was loving.

Healing was loving each other, knowing that they weren’t quite okay. That there would be fights, that their story didn’t end there. That there were still things to solve, and a long way ahead.

But healing meant loving each other even when they felt they didn’t deserve to be loved. It was loving each other when there was no light in their path, and their only reassurance was stepping out of the tunnel together.

Healing meant trusting.

“ _ Tu m’as manqué _ ,” Laurent whispered, “ _ Beacoup _ .”

_ I missed you. So much. _

Pulling him closer, Damen whispered back, “ _ Tu m’as manqué aussi. Terriblement. _ ”

_ I missed you too. Terribly. _

 

 

***

“Tell me,” Laurent said, in such a small voice he couldn’t believe it was coming from him, “Please.”

Damen didn’t respond immediately, instead focused on playing with Laurent’s hand, intertwining their fingers over and over, softly pressing their fingertips together. His eyes weren’t on Laurent’s, or on their hands, but lost somewhere between reality and his own mind.

Before, when Damen left, it usually felt as though half of him was gone, and the other half had all of Laurent’s attention. But now it was different. It didn’t feel as though if he was away, but rather that he was there, fully, completely. Just finding a way to let Laurent in.

They were sitting under the shade of various trees, as was their thing. It had been years since they had last done just that: lie on the fallen leaves and whisper to each other the unfiltered thoughts of their hearts.

Back to a time in their lives where everything was drifting in another direction and they couldn’t notice; the changes too imperceptible for their young minds. They thought they were close to having it all figured out. How exceptionally they had failed.

After a minute or two, Laurent shifted his position and sat up, then leaned closer, “Damen?” he called. Damen blinked, and then turned to him in a silent question. Laurent said, “Tell me about your dream.” And before he could answer, “And I’ll tell you mine.”

“That’s not fair,” Damen murmured, “Why do I have to share first?”

“Because I asked first.”

He sighed, “I want to make music boxes.”

“Music boxes?” Laurent whispered, suppressing both the smiles and tears that were forming. Two words and it sent waves of different yet mixed emotions running through his veins.

“Is it such a bad idea? I mean I could…make it work, somehow. I’m good at woodwork, and I’m not brilliant in music but I could…try, you know? I want to…open a shop and sell music boxes. If someone might be happy with them, I want to be part of that.” Damen continued, with his gaze towards the sky, “I want to make…connections. Leave marks. Do something I’m proud of. Something that actually, truly, really, comes from  _ me _ .”

Laurent heard Auguste’s voice in his head saying,  _ Music can mend what has been broken. _

Taking Damen’s hand towards his chest, Laurent asked, “But?”

“But,” Damen sighed, “I have no money. And I have no idea of how to even start. And I haven’t finished my degree.”

_ I have money, _ he didn’t say.

“Do you want to finish that career?”

Damen didn’t respond immediately, and that was enough answer. Instead, he said, “Well,  _ vicomte _ , I’m waiting to hear about your dream.”

Laurent lay back down on the grass, never letting go off Damen’s hand. His hair was long enough now that he could see a few strands around his face on the ground. He sprawled and muffled the leaves like a small kid would, indulging in his allowed moment of innocence.

“I want to play music professionally.” He said, “I want to play on a stage again. I want to play with an orchestra again. I want to play every day, Damen. I want to make music, finish the songs Auguste started. I want to audition for the conservatory, and then the National Symphony Orchestra.”

It hurt. But it was the good kind of hurt. The hurt that came from overexcitement and nervousness and the incertitude regarding the door he wanted to open again.

Damen sat up and then moved so he was leaning over him. Staring into his eyes, he asked, “Are you serious, Lo?”

Laurent nodded, “I very much am.”

Then, Damen went quiet. Very carefully, he moved to sit down next to Laurent again, giving him his back.

“Damen?” Laurent whispered.

“That’s,” Damen said, and his voice sounded a little high pitched and strangled, like if he was beginning to cry, “That’s a beautiful dream.” And then, “I haven’t seen you happy in so long.”

“I know.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“I know.”

“You deserve good things,” he said, and Laurent crawled to the other side so he could face him.

He said, “And you deserve more than I could ever give you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You deserve to be happy too, Damen.”

“Can we be happy together then? Can we try?”

_ I will help you _ , he didn’t say,  _ have your music box shop. _

“We can.”

 

 

***

“You went to Charcy?” Damen asked.

Laurent nodded while absently sipping his drink and chewing lightly on the straw. After their conversation in the park, Damen had suggested comfort food and Laurent hadn’t hesitated in accepting the offer.

It had been a while since they last hung out together like this, sitting on the terrace of a small restaurant, talking about nothing important, enjoying each other’s company without any hurry.

He had almost forgotten what it felt like, when Damen held his hand across the table while passing the pen back and forth as they played tic-tac-toe on a napkin. And the way Damen smiled ever so slowly and fully and gleefully.

It was hypnotizing and his stomach filled with bubbles.

“I wanted to talk about Nicaise. Of course I couldn’t tell them everything, but Professor Guillaume told me they have been monitoring him for a while now, and they suspect a thing or two.”

“Guillaume?” Damen smiled, “He’s still teaching?”

“Yes. And I think he will continue to teach for a while.”

“What did he say, then? Can they help?”

“I got the impression he wants to, yes.” He started to twirl the ice cubes of his lemonade with the straw, “He also asked for my permission to make a homage for Auguste.”

“And what did you say?”

“I haven’t answered yet.”

“Are you planning to?”

Laurent nodded, “Maybe Auguste can’t enjoy it, wherever he is now. But his music might reach more people. And that’s how musicians get to live.”

And the people who didn’t have the privilege to know him would find out what kind of person he had been and those who did get to know him would remember him not by the illness that killed him but by the music he brought to life.

Their bubble was popped and evaporated into thin air as the waitress placed plates on their table, “Okay, who ordered the pizza?”

After sorting out their meals, they were alone again. Laurent said, as he grabbed fork and knife, “Again with commoner’s food, Damianos?”

Damen wasn’t amused as he added ketchup to his burger, “I’m blending in with the peasantry, de Vere.”

Laurent smiled, “ _ Très bien _ .”

“ _ Amusé _ ?” Damen asked, raising an eyebrow.

“ _ Pas du tout _ .”

“ _ Orgueilleux _ .”

“ _ Bête _ .”

“ _ Connard _ .”

“ _ C'est ma ligne. “ _

_ “Désolé, mon chéri.” _

_ “Chéri?” _

_ “Chéri.” _

 

 

***

In reality, Damen didn’t know much about Victoria.

Well, he knew everything Auguste had told him over the phone and Skype. He knew she was Italian. He knew that she went to an all girls school and was top of her class in fencing.

But other than that, and the obvious fact that she was indeed very beautiful and a gifted pianist, she was a mystery. She seemed to be kind and sweet, and yet very strict. They hadn’t shared enough moments together for Damen to get to know her better, but he liked her a lot. And he understood why Auguste fell in love with her.

Damen rang the bell twice and hoped Victoria would already be back home from her part-time job. Looking at his watch, he debated whether to go home or maybe call her, but the door opened before he could make a decision.

Victoria was there, with her hair wet and wearing a pastel pink bathrobe. She looked surprised to see him, but then smiled and threw her arms around him anyway, “Damen!”

“Hey, Victoria, nice to see you,” he said and returned the hug.

Pulling away, she said, “Nice to see you too. I’m sorry, you caught me when I was in the bath,” and then giggled.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he apologized, “I can come back—“

“Nonsense, now that you’re here, have a cup of coffee with me.”

Victoria’s apartment was small, but cozy, and with a lot of natural light. The first Damen noticed was the wall piano and its unusual burgundy colour. He’d never seen one like that before. It wasn’t as big as Auguste’s either, but then again he had never really seen pianos as big as Auguste’s anywhere else besides Charcy and competitions.

“Take a seat,” she said, “I’ll go get dressed and make coffee. How do you drink it?”

“Black is fine,” Damen smiled, “Thanks.”

Giving him a smile, she said, “I’ll be right back,” then she disappeared down the hall.

Five minutes after, she was dressed in a mint blouse and trousers, her hair still wet, and she chatted casually about a book she was reading before he came over as she prepared the mugs for the coffee.

“Cookies?”

He shook his head, but she brought a plate with a few anyway. As she sat down, she handed him a mug and she poured a cube of sugar into her own. Then, she asked, “What can I help you with?”

“I came with a petition,” Damen frowned, “I’m sorry it sounds awful that way.”

“It’s alright. Tell me.”

“Teach me how to play the piano,” he said, looking from the coffee to her eyes that were just as dark, “Please.”

Victoria looked at him, a million questions going through her eyes, but she didn’t ask any of them. She didn’t ask why or question his ability, instead she said, simply, “Alright.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“No—Damen, you don’t have to pay me,” and then, “However, I do have something I want in exchange.”

“Anything.”

Smiling, she looked down at the ring on her finger before saying, “Can you make me a music box?”

 

 

***

“Here again, are we?” Professor Guillaume said.

“I have two requests,” Laurent said, and then frowned a little.

_ Although one is more of a favour. _

“I’m listening,” Guillaume said, clasping his hands together over the desk, “What is it?”

“Let me participate in Auguste’s homage.”

“Granted. What’s the other thing?”

“I,” his tongue tied, “Help me,” he said, and took a breath before continuing, “Help me get an audition for the music conservatory.”

When he said it, his teacher’s eyes lit up. What Laurent so much rejected to do during his senior year in high school was a favour he was asking for now. He wanted to do music again, and now, without his brother to guide him and after spending years without properly practicing, more than ever he needed to continue his studies.

He wanted to grow musically, whether to be a soloist or part of an orchestra, or a composer or a teacher, he didn’t know. He just knew,  _ felt _ , that he needed this.

He was surrendering to that world, to that life. One that they always told him would be solitary, promised that would be equally regarding to whatever it was he was giving up to be a musician.

There was no more running away, no more faints and cheating.

He wanted to be the violinist that inspired Nicaise to play. He wanted to be the violinist that changed Damen’s perspective towards classical music. He wanted to be the violinist Jord asked to practice with. He wanted to be the violinist that made people want to listen. The one that could change the whole path of an orchestra. The one who could paint scenery without a drop of paint.

“Please,” he added, finally.

Professor Guillaume watched him and smiled, then looked up at the ceiling like whispering a prayer, “I thought you’d never ask, boy.”

To that, Laurent laughed sincerely and uncontrolled, like laughs should be.

 

 

***

Laurent stormed into his own bedroom like if he was anything but himself.

In a way, it was very similar to that character in a horror story; the one wearing a red mask and intruding into a masquerade ball.

As he entered the room, he closed the door behind him, and still he wasn’t himself. He was completely out of it, and yet the thing was, it was the most himself he had felt in quite a long time. The confusing part was the fact that this time, the roles were inverted.

As Prospero, the presumptuous, cowardly Prince, Laurent had been once. And as he had died, Laurent had also, inevitably, died. When Auguste had died, eight months ago, Laurent had sunk like an anchor in the pond of his own misery. He had drowned himself, tortured himself, hoping that he would disappear into the nothing, nothing at all.

Laurent had thought, at the very beginning of such a winding road, that a world without his brother wasn’t worth living in. That life, without Auguste de Vere, the pianist, wasn’t meant to even exist.

And hence, Laurent had thought Laurent de Vere, the violinist, wasn’t meant to exist either. In a cloudy mind fed by grief and the perpetual agony of having been both betrayed and abandoned and loved and hated by all those who had promised him better, it had been only logical, to put two and two together and reach the obscure and murky idea that being the youngest brother, he had no place without the one person who had been born before him.

But now, in this part of the story, Laurent wasn’t the dying protagonist, or the evil villain, or the obnoxious anti-hero the readers can’t decide whether to like or not. He wasn’t supposed to destroy, or be destroyed, anymore.

Because after debating whether to let himself try one more time and live, or giving up and being overcome by the pain, he had finally found the equilibrium.

Because after years of hating having to breathe, he was for once glad he had the joy to feel the air into his lungs.

After the most arduous battle of his life, and the longest questioning of his being, he no longer woke up and went to bed with the same three questions looming in his head.

_ Why am I here? _

_ Do I deserve to be here? _

_ Can I choose not to be here? _

He no longer felt as if he was out of balance,  _ out of sync _ . He was no longer a solo violin, playing until he wasn’t but a vessel.

There were  _ songs _ inside of him. There was an entire  _ orchestra _ arising from a part he thought was gone for good. And the melody of his heart wasn’t one, but many, too many to count. And all of them were different, and all of them made harmony.

And the combination of each and every sound, deafening and quiet, happy and sad, luminous and darkening, the ballades and the lullabies and the waltzes and sonatas, altogether, made the most wonderful music Laurent had ever heard.

Laurent sat at his desk, and without stopping to think twice, he opened a transparent jar. If you looked at it from afar, it was easy to think it was empty. For it only contained small scattered pieces of a music piece.

An étude.

The last bit of his brother, the last bit of his music had been for Laurent. About Laurent. In between all the moments Auguste was struggling to stay awake in his feverish state and to keep himself breathing, somehow, there had been scarce spaces of time that he had spent composing.

The last bit of his life had been for Laurent, from the very start. He didn’t write music for his best friend, or the love of his life, or any other person Laurent had always thought had been more important at some point.

_ No. _

And he had been idiotic enough to tear it apart, but thankfully not to throw it away like all the other things he regretted not having now. At the very least, he had kept  _ this _ .

Broken, as it was, but fixable.

Laurent wasn’t a bad person, or an unfortunate one, or a sad one. He was just the most realistic person there could ever be. And he felt things too deeply, too strongly, and he was jealous and stubborn and sometimes very irritating.

But he was music. And music was every good thing and every bad thing together.

Music was every tear and every last breath and every goodbye, but it was also the laughter and the gentleness and every single person that makes it extraordinary to be alive.

Music was holding hands without being touched, and loving without kissing, and smelling flowers in winter, and words of encouragement whispered in our ears, and being guided through the darkness and the blinding light that there’s afterwards.

And, music is realizing that, after everything that’s happened, there was no other possible outcome. There was no alternative ending, and no more words to be added to the discourse. And every plausible theory is finally discharged, because it just couldn’t end any other way, could it?

No.

Laurent was music.

And music can fix the unfixable; music mends what has been broken.

Laurent emptied the pieces onto his desk, and turned on the lamp. He grabbed glue, and tape, paper and a pen.

It was like  _ kintsugi _ , just more abstract. And he imagined himself pouring liquid gold between the cracks, and the empty spaces where his brother should be in the memories that he held weren’t tainted, but lined in silver. They were precious, and valuable, and he didn’t want to forget a single one of them.

Not the good ones or the bad ones.

Because the Vere brothers, the Golden Pianist and the Golden Violinist weren’t good nor bad. They were exceptional, and the beginning of a legend.

They were brothers, tied by something stronger than blood. 

_ Étude – for violin and piano.   _

_ By Auguste and Laurent de Vere. _

_ I will play for you every day for the rest of my life. _


	31. Reminiscence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, today I performed a magic trick.  
> You see, my laptop died. But after six hours I somehow brought it back to life AND updated this story.  
> Magic. Pure magic. 
> 
> As you can probably guess, I had a stressful day. And even though this is my longest Chapter so far I'm not sure it's my best one, but I do hope the wait was worth it. 
> 
> A thousand hugs and kisses to Kelly who also beta'ed this for me. (Her birthday is tomorrow, go spam her AO3 inbox with b-day wishes!)
> 
> Thank you for every comment, every kudo, every nice word directed at me and my characters. You've been amazing. 
> 
> I'm not going to cry yet, I'll leave that for the final chapter. 
> 
> Much love to you all, have a great week<3
> 
> P.S. A [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9-1ESx99HcE) for today.

_ Message to: Jord. _

_ I know we haven’t talked in months. And I know I kept on screwing  up every chance you tried to give me. But I want to talk to you. _

_ Message to: Jord. _

_ Please. _

Laurent was…waiting.

The complex was pretty enough, but not exceptional. Far away from the centre, well placed in a tranquil suburban area, only eight minutes away from the metro station. Even from outside, he could imagine how it looked on the inside. Two bedrooms, probably. An open kitchen with an average yet splendidly illuminated living room, one bathroom, and a terrace. Not too small, not too big, just convenient.

He was waiting by the main entrance, a few steps away from the parking lot. There were bees buzzing around the flower bushes and he watched them, trying to distract himself from the nervous flips his stomach was making.

Bees had the arduous labor of keeping such a miserable, ungrateful world alive and yet humans insisted on killing them. They worked with resilience and efficiency as a team. 

They always reminded him of Jord. Due to the grand amount of green areas in Charcy, bees were everywhere as soon as spring started. And while many of their classmates prefered to step on them for fear of being stung―and others because they were simply idiotic― Jord carefully took the injured ones away from the battlefield. Laurent remembered it fondly, how Jord would look for small papers for them to climb on and take them away from their absurd classmates. 

Sometimes, he just thought Jord was one of those people who cared too much when there was no need. And it was often irritating because, usually, there’s not a person who would care as much back. 

It was only years after that Laurent realized he was the one who should’ve cared back. Jord wasn’t a masochist or a goodie-two-shoes. He had morals and values he respected, people he cared for, ideas he believed in. Like the sense of justice and the ironical unfairness of it. 

They had met in kindergarten, back to when the monologues in his own head transformed into an indecipherable babble when trying to speak them out. Laurent started early, he was only two years old when the rest of his classmates had already turned three. Why that had been the case, he couldn’t remember and his parents weren’t around to explain it. 

It was probably during the last few months of second year of preschool or the beginning of the third year when he befriended Jord. He sat next to him on the colouring table, and while they weren’t particularly playing buddies, somehow, between clay and macaroni crafting, they became best friends. 

By the time he was six and in first grade, he was more aware of his own existence and the fact that Jord was a constant presence in his life. They did most of the group activities together and shared a bench during recess to eat their breakfast. Around those years, firsts of elementary school, a comic series came out and they both enjoyed it a lot, which helped the bonding process. 

That, and the fact that all the other children were too busy making fun of his eyebrows. They used to point at him and laugh, very exaggeratedly, about Laurent having no eyebrows. He remembered Auguste being mildly upset and his dad reassuring him that while his hair was very fair ―very French― he most certainly had eyebrows. 

And because he lacked any interest in socializing from a very young age, although his parents just thought he was shy, it wasn’t that he cared enough to do something about it. 

Until they started messing with Jord, too. And so, Laurent had glued his main bully’s eyebrows during nap time, which was of course hilarious, if not traumatizing for the boy. 

Then, at some point between the last years of elementary and the first year of high school in Charcy, their relationship started to wither. Mostly because Laurent was terrified and too disgusted with himself that he decided to push everyone away, including Jord. 

Suddenly they didn’t see each other anymore, and although they were still in the same class, Laurent joined the orchestra and Jord the choir. Jord got other friends, like Aimeric and Lazar and Laurent continued to be alone until his third year, where he had found a group of people he felt he could belong to, and then they fell apart. 

A tragic ending for a lovely bedtime story. 

However amount of courage he had managed to muster to come to Jord’s house was dismissed by the fact he realized, as he went to press on the intercom, that he didn’t know the apartment number. And because he was oh so very lucky sometimes, it couldn’t be a normal intercom with the names of the residents, but rather a special security one that only allowed typing the numbers.

It was smart, the anonymity of the thing, but annoying for his purpose.

Jord hadn’t been answering his texts or calls or e-mails, and before he opted for a message in a bottle or a smoke signal, coming to his house seemed prudent.

They hadn’t spoken since the cigarette incident, and it was mostly Laurent’s fault. If it was any other person, probably, he would forget about it. But this was his best friend from kindergarten and elementary school and then even in Charcy. As much as he had wanted to deny it, Laurent cared for him. 

Maybe not in the right time, the right moment. But he had cared, and he still did now, more than ever before. 

Jord was there when Auguste died. And when Laurent couldn’t…act like he was supposed to, Jord was the one to talk to doctors and nurses and the people in the morgue.

The least he owed him was the chance to know why Laurent had pushed him away for so long. And an apology, whether he accepted it or not.

Assuming Jord left for his classes early enough to always be punctual, he should be out of his apartment in the following minutes. However, his schedule might have changed, and if that was the case, then Laurent would have no other option than to go back home. His plan was, unfortunately, based on facts that could or could not be the same as to when they were still talking.

After a minute or so, Jord stepped out.

He was carrying his camera bag, and it wasn’t completely clear whether he had seen Laurent and ignored him, or just walked past him like a stranger. It didn’t matter which one it was for both hurt equally the same. Stung, like skin ripping open again with one pull from a wound that hasn’t properly cicatrized.

“Jord,” Laurent called after him, “Jord, wait.”

Turning around, Jord stopped and stared. He didn’t look pleased to see him. Surprised, a little bit, but definitely not pleased.

_ Oh. _

_ So he didn’t recognize me before. _

“I’ve been texting you,” he said as a greeting.

“Yeah, I know,” Jord said, “Whatever you need, Laurent, I can’t help. I’m busy.”

His voice died in his throat. He brought it back to life, “I don’t need anything,” he said.

Jord gave him one last look before walking away again. Laurent followed him, even though a part of himself, the one that was hurting, wanted to avoid this whole situation.

“You deserve an apology,” Laurent said. Jord ignored him, “I know I was an asshole. I know I was the worst best friend there could possibly be. And I’m really sorry.”

“I thought you said we weren’t best friends,” he said dryly.

Laurent cursed himself under his breath, “I lied.”

“Why? Did you want to hurt me that much?”

“No, I never meant to hurt you. Can you let me explain?”

Jord stopped walking. He deadpanned, “No. You can’t,” and then, clicking his tongue, “I don’t believe you anymore. It’s always the same; you need something and you call me for help and I feel…I feel like I should do whatever it is that you ask me because you used to be the person I trusted most.” He laughed bitterly, “In another lifetime perhaps.”

“Jord—I could―“

“Thing is,” he cut him off, “you never cared for me enough and for years I fooled myself into the idea that perhaps it was just how we worked. But I’m not a teen and we’re not friends anymore, most likely we never were and possibly we’ll never be.” He sighed, and then, as though those four words pained him enough to reflect in his voice, Jord whispered, “Please leave me alone.”

Laurent wanted to protest. Do something; yell, run after him, making him turn around and listen to the words he kept saying in his head. But he didn’t. Instead, he watched Jord leave.

Maybe it was too late.

Maybe there were still things he couldn’t fix.

Jord had grown from being a too boney and toothless kid to this adult he could barely recognize. And Laurent had missed a great deal of it, if not all.

And he couldn’t blame it on anyone but himself even though he knew it wasn’t his fault because a sick man took his childhood and wrecked it. And it didn’t matter whether Jord knew this or not because he was still right when he said Laurent hadn’t cared enough. 

Laurent let him down, he knew that. 

He also knew he couldn’t make up for the years he had missed. For every little and big thing Jord had gone through that he had been absent for. 

The worst part was that they sat next to each other, inches apart for at least five years and Laurent had been oblivious to Jord’s suffering as well. 

Friendships can hurt like this, and he didn’t know. He’d taken them for granted. 

What a mistake. 

He bit his lip and closed his eyes for a second as he exhaled. Then, to the empty parking lot, Laurent said, “I’m sorry.”

 

 

***

He couldn’t get used to it, no matter how hard he tried. It was as if a fundamental part was missing; butter to toast, milk to coffee. And he couldn’t deal with the loss, for it made the full picture strange in a skin-prickling sense.

Both burnt coffee and burnt toast seemed more appealing. 

Sitting on a chair in front of Professor Guillaume’s desk in Charcy while being almost twenty-one was already surreal enough. But doing so with the knowledge and conviction that Auguste was no longer there, only made the whole thing stranger.

Funny, how life spiraled.

Spinning, and spinning, until you lost awareness of where you were standing. Spinning, like the globe Laurent was playing with as he waited. It was black, and the countries shone in gold.

As a teenager, he had resisted the urge to touch it many times. A barrier between teacher and student he had wished to preserve untouched, even though he somehow envied the easiness with which Auguste treated Guillaume; more like a colleague and not a figure of authority. 

Now, after everything he had been through, he thought playing with his teacher’s world globe was nothing to worry about. Nor was it knocking down that barrier with a hammer.

He yawned, his world going blurry for a minute and his head pulsing like a heart, symptom of a soon-to-be headache, as the door opened. Behind him the sound of steps and Guillaume’s voice finishing a phone call reached his ears.

Again, he grabbed the globe and made it spin on its edge.

“You look dreadful,” Guillaume said, sitting at the desk. Then, eyeing him better, “Are you hungover?”

“Not exactly,” Laurent said, suppressing a yawn. His eyes got watery, “I didn’t sleep last night.”

“And was that involuntarily or completely purposefully?”

He frowned. Usually, the lack of sleep didn’t affect him as much, but the rising headache was clouding his thoughts, “I was composing,” he said.

“Were you now?” Guillaume seemed pleased. Almost…happy, “How did that go?”

“It’d be better if I had—“

He stopped mid sentence and cursed himself inwardly as he remembered. It was absurd…he could just buy another one at this point. It just…felt  _ wrong _ .

_ If I had a piano. If I had Amadeus. _

Professor Guillaume blinked, “Had what?” and then, as Laurent didn’t respond, “Laurent?”

Looking up, Laurent stopped playing with the globe and shook his head, “Nothing. Sorry, I’m tired.”

“I feel like I should scold you. Most likely I will later. Now I need you to drink some coffee and wake up because we have a meeting soon.”

“A meeting?” Laurent asked, “Is that why you called me here?”

“Yes,” his teacher said, and then pointed to the right, “The coffee machine’s there. I like mine with sugar, thank you. And no eye-rolling, there’s no complaining when you ditch on sleep.”

Laurent stood up, since complaining and even eye-rolling took more energy than the task in question, and he set up the coffee machine as they spoke, “Meeting with whom?”

“Two social service agents are coming,” Guillaume said, and his voice turned serious, “We need to talk about Nicaise.”

Suddenly, he was very awake. And he had this terrible feeling his head would start hurting for entirely different reasons. 

“But you said you wouldn’t…” he tried to argue.

“I know. But Laurent…” Guillaume sighed, “You’re thinking about your future. You’re composing. You want to go to a conservatory, and as much as you want to help, it is not possible to hide a teenager in your house until he turns eighteen.”

“What does going to a conservatory have to do with Nicaise?” Laurent asked, “I can still care after him.”

Guillaume gave him a look. One of those he used to give him in high school when he was being obnoxiously stubborn, “I thought you were considering applying abroad as well. And whether you decide to go or not, someone has to be responsible for Nicaise and I’d like to have that solved before the end of the school year.”

It was close to the beginning of May. Soon enough, finals would start and the graduation ceremony of the seniors would put an end to the school year.

Next to him, coffee started to brew and the smell was almost comforting enough that he asked, “Are you going to Nationals this year? With the orchestra, I mean.”

Guillaume tilted his head and smiled in a way that could be described funnily, “You do like to do that, don’t you?”

“What?”

“You did the same back when I interviewed you. You were so young. But you asked me questions like I could keep track of your mental trail of thoughts.”

“It’s not my fault you can’t keep up,” Laurent said, shifting his weight on his right foot and allowing his shoulder to rest against the wall. 

“We’re not going to Nationals this year.”

“Why not? You did say you had more musicians now.”

“When your brother died,” Guillaume started, “The school decided not to take place in any event or activity for the whole year. We…as a group, decided that, out of respect for him and you.”

Not knowing what to say, he turned off the coffee machine, but didn’t move from where he stood, across the room. Guillaume was looking at him, waiting for a word, but Laurent wasn’t sure of which one to pick.

“We’re not Charcy students anymore.”

Guillaume’s voice was soft, almost nostalgic when he said, “But you’ll always be part of Charcy. It’s true a school can’t define who you are, but the students that get in don’t make it because we think you’ll be good for the school’s reputation. We pick you based not only on your talents but also your passion. Charcy, as a concept, was born of the idea to have a safe space for young artists to learn and express themselves.” He made the quotes with his fingers, “ _ ‘Charcy’ _ is just the name the founders chose for it.”

Something tugged at his chest, at his heart. Laurent made himself not react, but it was squeezing, almost crushing it.

_ Say it. _

_ Laurent, say it. _

_ He deserves to know. _

“I really liked it,” he said, finally, almost choking on his words, “I really liked studying here. And I really liked the orchestra. No, I…I loved it, actually. I never wanted to drop it. I shouldn’t have…not before the Nationals.”

Professor Guillaume looked at him like he was looking at an unsolved math problem, “Why would that matter now?”

“Because it does,” he said, and fought the urge to grip on his own shirt, “It doesn’t stop mattering. An untreated wound is not going to heal on its own, just get infected. And…”

He had thought, for months, that when Auguste had died he had left too many questions unanswered. Truth was, Laurent had created those questions himself. Auguste wasn’t the mysterious ghost of his secrets, Laurent had just decided to put that weight on him as well because he wasn’t there to deny it. As awful as it was.

We give the dead the burden of the things we cannot face. We blame them, because it’s easier than to fight against ourselves. 

Laurent had blamed Auguste’s illness for the fact that he couldn’t play the violin anymore. And in a way, it had been true. But not entirely. And he had felt both relieved and sickened for it. 

He had been looking for a excuse not to face the music his heart had been screaming for years. Earplugs, to block the sounds of his own soul. 

Refusing to accept his mistakes, and how tremendously he had fucked up, poisoned the image of himself that hadn’t been already corrupted by the abuse he had suffered. And because he no longer cared about himself, it altered the way others saw him. 

Like Aimeric, who somehow had made him a better violinist. And Maybe Laurent would never know in reality why he killed himself. Maybe he was as messed up as Laurent was at fifteen. 

But perhaps it was because Laurent saw his own pain reflected in Aimeric’s that he couldn’t stand him. 

It had been easier to blame Aimeric for the inevitable deterioration of his friendship with Jord because he was dead. 

He didn’t want to have the blame. 

He didn’t want to be the one to say he was sorry. 

_ Swallow your pride.  _

Auguste’s words were an echo in his head:  _ Apologize when you need to _ . 

“And,” he said, “I’m sorry that I did.”

“It’s not so much about the words, you know, but the actions,” Guillaume said and smiled, “If it means anything to you, I accept your apology. But if you wished to help, I might have a job for you next September.”

“A job?”

“Come help me with the orchestra next year. If you work with them the way you’ve done with Nicaise, then I believe we can make something extraordinary.”

Something extraordinary. 

Something...more. 

He could be part of something like that. 

He, Laurent de Vere, almost twenty one and broken in pieces. Laurent de Vere, the violinist, the one without a brother. 

He could do things entitled as extraordinary. 

“Besides, it’s never too early to start your obliged community service, for the conservatory I mean.”

Laurent cackled, just a little, “I thought you wanted me to go abroad.”

Guillaume looked at him fondly, almost affectionately, “But if you decide to stay, just know that you have a place here, alright?”

Nodding, Laurent smiled, “Alright.”

 

 

***

“We understand that you believe Nicaise is being abused,” social worker ‘A’ said. She had introduced herself as Amelia, but Laurent didn’t like her much and it had been just five minutes. It was as if she was trying too hard to seem pitiful and condescendent. She was slim, with her dark hair tied up and wearing a grey suit that made her seem older than she was. 

Social worker ‘B’ was a man older than her, with his black hair turning white on the sides and a pair of black eyes to match. He was named Angus, and Laurent had to admit with a name like that it was hard not to seem constantly constipated. 

He presumed they were a usual team, for they constantly exchanged glances. She was perhaps new in the field, but it seemed he was already a veteran.

They had moved from Professor Guillaume’s office to the director’s, who was now a woman in her late thirties, and from what he knew, she was the daughter of the previous director. The dumpy old man that had expelled Aimeric. 

Guillaume said, “We’ve had our suspicions since the beginning of the year. But we were beginning to know him, since he transferred from a public school after winning a scholarship.”

The director added, “I contacted his previous school to know if they had any records of complaints by any teacher but Nicaise’s file would be empty if it wasn’t for the constant visits to the infirmary and call-in sick days.”

“Has that been the case here in Charcy as well?” agent B, Angus asked. 

“Not many sick days, but he claims a headache at least every week. He refused to be checked by the nurse and his gym teacher also took him out of class because he refused to take off his sweater when it was almost thirty five degrees outside,” Guillaume said, “A few weeks ago he came to class with a black eye and a bruised foot.”

“I see, well,” Amelia said, reading through some papers, “How are his grades? Does he have any friends?”

“Average grades,” the director said, “Fifteen, in general. However, he’s in the top three of his generation regarding music lessons. One of our best violinists this year.”

“Nicaise interacts with two girls from the orchestra, but besides that, I’m afraid I don’t know whether he is friends with anyone in his class.”

“He has a friend,” Laurent said, “Paris, I believe.”

In all honesty, Nicaise didn’t talk that much about him. But whenever he mentioned him, it seemed like they at least got along pretty well. It was worth mentioning. If Nicaise and him were any similar, then Paris had a bigger role in his life than Nicaise was making it seem. 

“Oh, you’re his violin tutor, is that correct? How did you come to be his teacher?” Amelia asked, giving him a small encouraging smile while her partner stared at him with a straight face. 

“It was I believe late October or early November when he contacted me and asked me to give him lessons after school. At first I wasn’t sure how he got to my contact information, but then he told me he was referred to me by my brother who used to give lessons at the music conservatory during the summer.”

He avoided telling them Nicaise showed up at his house unannounced and without a good explanation. It’d do no good.

“Is there any chance we might interview your brother as well? It’s better when we have several testimonies.” she said. 

Guillaume and the director exchanged a look, and they both looked ready to intervene when Laurent said, calmly and composed, “My brother passed away last autumn. He had cancer.”

When neither of them said anything, he continued, “Nicaise has showed up to my house bleeding and beaten all over more than once. Struggling to walk, even. And starving.”

Angus asked, then, “Do you believe he might be in danger?”

He nodded, “Nicaise has been staying with me since the last...incident. And I felt I needed to inform the school about it.”

“Which is why we contacted you,” Guillaume finished. 

“Well, Angus said, “I think we’ll give the boy’s father a visit.”

 

 

***

Snap.

A snap, followed by a high pitched cry and the numb burnt sensation on his fingertips.

Laurent sighed and rubbed his face. He said, “I’m sorry, Cecil.”

He kept snapping the strings. True, they were old and needed to be changed, but he hated when they broke under his touch. Not only was it painful to the ear but he also felt guilty for damaging his instrument, in an emotional rhetoric way he couldn’t explain, since instruments didn’t actually felt, but to a musician, instruments could hurt as much as a human being. 

Strings could be changed, but if he didn’t find peace of mind, he would break all of them no matter what.

Walking out of the kitchen, Damen stared at him. Laurent was sitting on the floor of Damen’s living room, right in front of the windows of the balcony, crossing his legs and with his violin on top of them. His music sheets were everywhere, his hair was a the perfect synonym of the word  _ turmoil _ , in spite of failed attempts of putting it up in a pony tail. He was stressed and hungry and in need of a break.

But he couldn’t stop.

He had decided to write something special for Auguste’s homage, and he needed to practice in order to pass his audition in the music conservatory. It wasn’t time for breaks. Not even if his strings were broken and his fingers were starting to bleed and blister.

At this point, his blisters had blisters that bled just as much.

“Another one?” Damen asked softly, drying his hands on a kitchen rag.

Laurent nodded, putting Cecil aside and holding his knees to his chest. Letting out a sigh, “I should go to the store and get new strings.”

“ _ You _ should take a break,” Damen said.

“That’s not an option.”

“You didn’t sleep last night and you were pretty upset earlier as well, I think it’s a call for a nap.”

Laurent scoffed, “I’m not a child making a tantrum over sleep deprivation.”

“But you’re acting like one.”

Laurent looked up just to glare at him, but Damen was already rising up his eyebrow. It was frustrating when he was fast enough to catch his reactions.

“Are you cooking?” Laurent asked, just to change the subject and because the smell was making his stomach growl in a very uncomfortable way.

“I made risotto.”

“I really like risotto,” he sighed and then proceeded to wince at the constant stinging of his fingers. He hadn’t needed to bandage them since high school.

Damen noticed, for he reached over to grab one of his wrists, strongly yet carefully, and then let go before disappearing down the hall. He came back with a first aids kit, and sat down on the floor in front of Laurent, their knees touching.

“Like old times?” Laurent whispered. Damen smiled.

“Can I see your fingers?”

Laurent held out his hands and Damen touched them like they were silk, it was more a brush than anything else. It hurt, just a little. But having Damen treat his fingers like he used to do when they were teenagers made him warm all over.

It was a good sensation. Possibly one of his favourites. 

Damen whispered, sympathy in his voice, “What’s troubling you,  _ vicomte _ ?”

“A few many things,” he whispered back, watching how Damen wrapped the cotton around his skin.

“Nicaise?” Damen guessed.

“Social services are going to take him from his father,” Laurent swallowed, “I’m afraid they might take him away from me as well.”

“Does Nicaise know?”

“No. Not yet…I don’t think…no. I thought…I thought I could keep him here. With me. With us.” And then, quieter than he intended, “I don’t want them to take him away, Damen.”

“There has to be something we can do.”

“I also went to see Jord today,” Laurent said, words laced with sour guilt, “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you. He’s just mad. I get mad at you all the time and that doesn’t mean I hate you.”

“Well thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Damen smiled, starting to wrap up his other hand, “Anything else that’s on your mind?”

He sighed, “The future. The music conservatory, the Royal, Auguste’s homage…us, our…our future. It’s just too much.”

“I see.” He whispered. It wasn’t until he was done bandaging both of Laurent’s hands that he proceeded, “Well, you know what?” patting the back of Laurent’s hand tenderly, “I suggest eating our dinner, watching a movie –your pick—and calling it a night. The future and Auguste’s songs can wait.”

“That seems…” Laurent sighed, resigned, “Wise.”

As much as he hated admitting it, he wasn’t making any progress. His mind was overworked and his body wasn’t cooperating either. 

Damen leaned closer and kissed him on the forehead, just above the hairline. It was sweet and soothing. Just how one feels after drinking a cup of hot chocolate or a favourite brand of tea. 

He let out a small breath and closed his eyes, as he wrapped his arms around Damen’s abdomen, pressing his head softly to his chest and closing his eyes, “Can I shower first?” He asked. 

Damen made a sound of agreement and rubbed his back, steadily but with delicacy, “I know it probably doesn’t help to say everything will be okay, but I’m running out of repertoire.” 

Letting out a breathy laugh, “You could try some in Greek, although I believe I’ve forgotten most of it.”

“No. Why? You should have practiced it.”

“You were away and we were fighting, who was I going to practice it with?”

“You had Nikandros.”

That made Laurent laugh harder, “Nikandros speaks Greek?”

“Well of course, his grandfather was Greek,” Damen said, the only sign of amusement that of his smile. 

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” Laurent whispered, “What language did you study in Charcy? I’ve forgotten. Was it French? I thought it might have been, but you already spoke it fluently.” 

“I took French until third year, then I changed to Spanish.”

Leaning back so that he could look at him, Laurent asked, “How come I never heard you speak Spanish?”

“The pronunciation is kind of embarrassing. Too many ‘r’s to roll.”

Grinning, “Entertain me.”

There was a silence, and Laurent thought he wasn’t going to do it, but in the end, Damen surrendered. 

Quietly, he said, “ _ Te amo tanto tanto que creo que se me va la vida en ello _ .”

It was beautiful. Whatever he said, it was enough to make his stomach fold in two. Sometimes it wasn’t necessary to understand the meaning for the heart to squeeze in gratifying bliss, for it understands what the mind doesn’t. 

“Thank you,” Laurent whispered, and just then, he took Damen’s face in his hands and kissed him. 

It was stolen. For each and every almost-kiss that didn’t make the cut while they were growing up. Each time he thought he wanted to but couldn’t dare to. Each time he thought he’d never have the chance to feel anything like that ever again while their paths drifted apart. 

Stolen, because he wanted to steal from Damen the breaths and shudders he had selfishly took when he was fifteen. Because he wanted to make Damen feel exactly what he was feeling too. 

Laurent loved him, even when he didn’t know how to love. He loved the surprise on Damen’s face before kissing him back, his hands finding their place on Laurent’s back. He loved the feeling of power that came with wrapping Damen’s curls around his bandaged violinist fingers. 

He loved taking Damen’s lip between his teeth, and the words Damen whispered on his ear that made him grin. He loved every minute he spent caressing Damen’s body, the safety from being in his arms. 

_ I’m stealing this from you.  _

_ No, I’m giving this to you.  _

_ Everything. The laughter, the courage, the confidence. I want you to have every single thing that you lent me and that I stole for myself thinking it was mine by default. _

_ I want you to have everything from me, as you gave me everything from you. _

_ I want to have you, and I want you to have me.  _

_ Like a violin needs strings, and a song is made of notes, I need the music that lives inside of you.  _

 

 

***

After a well deserved shower, dinner and a movie, they fell asleep on the couch. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but they made it work, somehow. Limbs tangled with limbs. Faces so close they could feel each other’s breathing. 

It was when one of them ―or both, in all honesty― were about to fall off the damn thing that the enchantment broke and they woke up. 

Damen was the first to get up, and as he couldn’t convince Laurent to do the same, he tried to carry him, but it wasn’t working when he was just as tired. 

Shaking his shoulder softly, “Laurent, let’s go to bed.”

He received a groan in response. 

“I’m sorry, I’m too tired to carry you. Come on, let’s go to bed, you’ll sleep better there.”

After a few more trials, he managed to get Laurent to his feet, and together they made their way to Damen’s bedroom. He was grateful the apartment was rather small, so he didn’t need to guide Laurent through the darkness for too long. It was almost adorable how he stumbled in the dark, with most of his hair in his face, and the way he held Damen’s hand as though he was a child. 

Adorable. 

Once in bed, Laurent wrapped himself in a blanket and Damen held him closer. His breathing was starting to even when Laurent’s voice cut through his slumber.

“Damen?”

Not having the proper amount of energy to open his eyes, Damen simply said, “Yes?”

Laurent’s voice was very, very weak, “I want to write a song for Auguste.”

Forcing his eyes open, Damen saw that Laurent was rambling in his sleep. Or, not in his sleep but in his lethargic way towards it. 

“You will, love.” Damen whispered. 

“I just want him to know how much I loved him. I never told him and I don’t want him to be dead without knowing.”

The way Laurent said it, with such sadness and longing made his heart stir and step out of place. If he had to choose between bringing Auguste back, giving Laurent back his brother, with the price of never being able to love him like he did now, he would. 

But he couldn’t. And his lamenting wouldn’t do them any good. He couldn’t give Laurent his brother back, but he could be with him when the nights were rough and when missing Auguste was too much for either of them. He could hold him when he needed to be held, and love him the way he deserved to be loved. 

Damen grabbed Laurent’s hand in the darkness, squeezing it a bit too tightly, “I’ll help you, okay? We’ll write him a song. Together. We will tell him how much we love him.”

Laurent didn’t respond; his chest was rising and falling with steady breaths and his face was buried in his pillow. He looked at ease, and he hoped for all the angels he was having good dreams. Damen watched Laurent for a bit before following suit.

Between them, their locked hands rested. 

 

 

***

“This is a terrible idea,” Laurent said, “Victoria, tell Damen this is a terrible idea.”

Victoria, currently busy while playing a rendition of Hagood Hardy’s  _ If I had Nothing but a Dream, _ didn’t even turn to say, “I don’t think it’s such a bad idea.”

They were in her house, mostly because Laurent didn’t own a piano any longer and if they were going to fulfill this plan, they needed one. The morning after their wonderful night together, Damen was awake before him and watching him, certain nervousness ―or excitement― in the way he tapped his fingers on the space between them. He said, “Let’s write a song for him. Like The Anthem of the Heart.”

And Laurent hadn’t known what to say. 

It had seemed like a fine idea when Damen proposed it, but the fact that they needed Jord and Nikandros made him reconsider. 

Both of them had been close friends with Auguste, which was mostly why Laurent had agreed, but then again, they needed to work together for the purpose of composing and it was very clear neither of them liked Laurent. 

Which was understandable. But didn’t make it any easier, whether it was his fault or not.

A knock on the door made his heart perform a series of unhealthy movements. He wondered if at almost twenty-one he could still die of an arrhythmia. 

“They’re here,” Damen said. Looking at him, he asked, “Are you ready?”

Sincerely, “No.”

Damen went to open the door anyway, and Victoria stopped playing in order to receive them. 

It was all fun and games until, pleasantries finished, both Jord and Nikandros noticed his presence.

Jord didn’t seem surprised, but Nikandros looked annoyed. 

Pulling out his indifference card, Laurent nodded towards them, “Jord. Nikandros.”

Jord nodded back, but Nikandros groaned and turned his eyes at Damen, “Damen…”

“No.” Damen said, “The three of you are gonna suck it up today. We’re here because of Auguste.”

“Are we expecting Nicaise too?” Victoria asked, eyes shining. They worked well together, her and Nicaise. Victoria had the patience of his mother, and he found himself missing her. 

“No, he…” he whispered, absently, “He has to retake an exam at school.”

He hadn’t missed her in a while. But Victoria reminded him of her. She was always finding the good side of every single thing that went wrong. Like picking four-leaf clovers in the very thin grass space that adorned the crannies of the pavement sidewalks in a dirty city. 

Every morning, she would wake up early along with their father. While he got ready for work, she would prepare their lunchboxes and sing to anything that was playing on the radio. Although their father preferred listening to the news, he never once interrupted her singing. 

Laurent used to be an early riser as an infant, and so she would give him special cereal treats while helping him into his uniform. He always liked watching the easiness with which she handled life. Her role as a mother never seemed like a burden, and he knew now that it must have been, at times, not entirely pleasant. Children were complicated, as complicated or even more so than adult. Teaching them what was right and wrong didn’t depend on telling them so, for they understood actions better than words. 

She also didn’t like rules. And he supposed their father didn’t either. They gave Auguste and him as much freedom as they could give young children. They never blocked channels or shows from the TV, or told them what they could and couldn’t read. Which snacks to eat and which not. Or set a list of chores. 

They were open and honest and very interested in their lives, even though sometimes there wasn’t anything funny or clever to say at the dinner table. 

If they hadn’t died, maybe...maybe he could to find a way to repair the damage. Maybe they could advise him. 

His mother’s voice, who he had almost forgotten, echoed in his head, making his heart throb. 

_ Be kind.  _

There was a thing. A thing that he thought always differentiated him from Auguste. When their mother dropped them off at school, Auguste always entered first. Kissing her quickly on the cheek between running off. Never looking back. 

Laurent always lingered. 

It wasn’t for school itself, he didn’t have any problem in going. But when they reached the door, he lingered. He didn’t want to let go off her hand. 

“Be kind,” she would say, and wait until he kissed her and walked away. 

But even though he did, every day, he always looked back. 

He always looked back, and then they died. And the last image he has of them is that swing of his head as he turned to wave at them before they left the house. 

That’s why he refused to do it again. To look back, to say goodbye. 

They only just died. 

_ Be kind.  _

Not be  _ good _ , or be _ nice _ , just be  _ kind _ . 

But what made someone kind? Was it the words, or the way they were said? The big actions or the small ones? 

Was it forgiving others, or to be forgiven? 

Damen’s voice pulled him back from the depths of his mind, “Laurent?” 

He looked up. They were all watching him expectantly. 

“They’re making a homage for Auguste in Charcy,” he explained, “You will receive invitations soon. Almost every ex-alumni has been invited, as well as parents and old teachers. The orchestra and the choir are performing, mostly songs that he wrote and some of his personal favourites. But I asked for the chance to participate and decided to...write a song for him.”

“We thought it would be a good idea to write one together. All of us. Like we did once.” Damen said. 

Jord frowned and bit his lip, “I haven’t done music since high school, Damen.”

“I’ve never done music in my whole life and still here I am. For my best friend.”

“It’s useless to insist if they don’t want to,” Laurent said. 

“I never said I didn’t want to,” Jord snapped back.

“Of course not.” Laurent mocked him,  “You’ve just been killing off your voice with that futile vice of yours for the sake of music.” 

_ Be kind.  _

“And whose fault is that?” Nikandros said, shoving into their conversation.

“I can’t be blamed for Jord’s smoking habit, sorry to disappoint.”

_ Be kind.  _

His voice was raising word by word, each louder than the last, breaking his pitch, “Why do you have to be so goddamn selfish?”

Jord whispered, behind him, “Nik, leave it.”

“No, I’m tired of leaving it, Jord. This asshole needs to hear it. I’m done with both of you.”

Laurent watched them, “What are you talking about?”

“Jord has been smoking since high school, Laurent. Since fucking high school. Because when Aimeric died the only person he wanted to talk to was you and you kicked him away! You fucking kicked him away, week after week, month after month, year after fucking year. He needed you, and you weren’t there! You were too busy pitying yourself after whatever self-existentialist problem you’ve had that’s made up a cold-blooded bitch.”

Damen intervened this time, “Nik, this isn’t the right time…”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Damen,” he snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “Because he did the same thing to you. He broke your heart and stepped on the pieces, and _ I  _ was the one who had to sit there and watch it happen.” Turning back to Laurent, he glared and then laughed, humorlessly, bitterly, angrily, “Laurent de Vere doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Not you, or Jord, or even his own brother. He wasn’t there when Auguste died, did you know that?”

No one was saying anything anymore. And he wasn’t sure if it was because they were on Nikandros’ side or just couldn’t stop his venting. Maybe he was speaking up for them as well and Laurent was the one late to the party. 

As always. 

No. He quickly pushed those thoughts away. Damen trusted him, Damen knew everything. Damen was on his side.

“I had my reasons,” he tried to say, but it didn’t come out as clearly as he wanted to. 

Nikandros’ eyes widened, “You had your reasons?” In an awful voice, he said, “I was there, Laurent. I watched him die.”

Suddenly, it was all a mess of voices. He couldn’t keep track of all of it, of all of them. He knew what was happening, but he couldn’t feel or listen to everything at once. It happened very quickly; Nikandros grabbed him and shoved him against the wall, his back making contact with the cement. 

“He was my friend too,” Nikandros said, his voice breaking slightly, “I’m so tired of you. I’m so fucking done with you. You act like you’re the only one who has the right to grieve him, but  _ we _ all were his friends and you buried us with him.”

Laurent prepared himself for the blow, but it never came. Nikandros looked him in the eye before loosening his grip and stepping away from him. He walked out the door, Damen after him. 

Victoria said something about tea and walked to the open kitchen space to set up the kettle. 

Jord was the first to speak up, as though he was confessing his sins, his hands were twitching uncomfortably, “Aimeric left me a suicide note.”

It wasn’t...what he was waiting for. At all.

He breathed out, “What did he say?”

Jord smiled sadly, “That he was sorry. I know you blamed yourself for his death for a while, and I didn’t do anything about your pain as you didn’t do anything about mine. We both fucked up. But when you...were waiting at the parking lot, you said...you said that you were sorry and I got mad.

“Because for a long time now, Laurent, every time you don’t pick up the phone or answer my texts I fear that I’m going to find your dead cold body somewhere and that I’ll have to live with that, too. I lost Auguste and I lost Aimeric and I couldn’t do anything for them. I just can’t watch you destroy yourself anymore. ”

He couldn’t imagine the scene in his head. 

He couldn’t predict the next words or the outcome. And trusting his gut had never been a choice, but it was the only one he had now. 

“Why are you here, then?” he asked. 

Jord said, quietly, “Because you said you were sorry.”

“I should have been there.”

“Yes, you should’ve.”

“I don’t know,” Laurent said, “If I can make it right between us, but even if we can’t be friends anymore...do consider writing this song for Auguste.”

“We started this together,” Jord smiled, “It only makes sense that we finish it, too.”

_ This.  _

_ This _ , meaning whatever it was that they put in  _ The Anthem of the Heart _ back then that continued to chase them even now.  The essence of their friendship. What bonded them together, like a red string of faith, and that continued to connect them through the years. 

The song Auguste had written for them and the song they would gift to him. 

The door opened, and both Damen and Nikandros walked in silently. Laurent stared at him, waiting for a glare or an insult or a vulgar gesture. 

Instead, Nikandros returned the glance, and although it seemed like they had a long way to go to even consider to be friends again, he said, to Laurent, “A song for Auguste, you said.”

_ A song for Auguste.  _

 

 

***

Later on, after hours of working and composing and rehearsing and repeating the whole process over and over, Victoria suggested that they stayed for dinner. 

They ordered pizza and opened cans of beer while sitting in a cozy bundle of blankets Victoria had arranged in the balcony. It wasn’t precisely spacey, so they were cramped together, but it worked. The night was starry, and although the breeze was a bit cold, it wasn’t really a bother.

Tonight, they didn’t want to feel lonely. They didn’t want to feel the void Auguste had left behind. 

Tonight, they sat together as a group of friends, not the enemies they had made of each other for the past few years. 

Reunited, at last. 

_ This was your plan all along, wasn’t it, Auguste?  _

Most of the pizza was gone, by now, and they were sitting in a circle, trying to find constellations in the sky. 

“Lo?” Damen whispered. 

Laurent, who was sitting between Damen’s legs and with his back rested against Damen’s chest, hummed in response. 

“I need to get up, I’m sorry.”

Laurent sighed, but moved, “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he smiled and disappeared through the sliding doors back to Victoria’s apartment, which was pitch black.

Laurent leaned against the veranda and found himself missing the comfort of Damen’s warm body, so he wrapped the blanket further over his legs. 

Noticing her strong gaze, Laurent looked up and Victoria smiled at him. She had a can of beer in one of her hands and was playing with his index finger and a candle light up on the floor. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. She nodded.

“Thank you for letting me be part of the song,” she said. 

“It couldn’t work without you,” he said. And it was true. 

Writing a song about Auguste implied picking up the experiences and perspective of each of the people who had loved him the most. It wasn’t only Laurent’s emotions that mattered, because he couldn’t tell the story of Auguste’s life fully and accurately just from his point of view. Auguste had been more than his brother, he knew that now. 

He had been much more. 

“Are you cold?” he asked, sharing one of the blankets with her. She accepted it, pulling it over her bare feet. 

“So, Damen told me you want to audition for the conservatory,” she said, almost happily, “It’ll be so great to have you there. Much more fun.” 

It would have been easy to ignore the pain behind her voice, pretend it wasn’t there. A few months ago, perhaps, he would have dismissed her obvious call for help. 

But Laurent couldn’t do that to her. 

“Victoria,” he whispered. And that was enough to break her. 

“Don’t,” she whispered, still smiling. She looked away, but her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m here.”

“You are, and I’m so glad you are but,” her lips quivered, “I can’t―hearing you guys talk about him like that makes me feel as though there was still so much of him and...I couldn’t, he left before I could get to know him even better. I can’t sleep without him,” she laughed, but it was like choking out a sob, “I can’t even look at myself in the mirror because I expect him to be there behind me and…” she swallowed, her voice laced with desperation, “my parents keep suggesting I move back in with them, or that I go live with my aunt in Italy for a while, and my girlfriends keep recommending me therapists or...they just point out how tired I am but they don’t know because…”

“Because they didn’t know him like you did,” he finished for her. 

“Exactly,” she said, and the tears started to fall. 

“Sorry, I needed to―is she crying?” Damen whispered as he returned to his side. 

Laurent nodded, unsure of what to do, and then Damen moved and offered her a box. 

“This probably isn’t the right time, but I did what you asked me,” he whispered. 

She shook his head and smiled at him, then grabbed the box and said, “Thank you.”

“What is it?” Jord asked. 

Silently, they watched her open the box. It was small, like those they use for jewelry. 

“Oh, Damen, this is beautiful” she whispered, pulling out a golden, heart shaped locket. With a red ruby in the middle.  

Laurent was about to ask Damen why he had bought her a necklace, when Victoria turned a knob and then there was music coming out of it. It was a music box. 

As the song played, she covered her mouth to dismiss the sounds of her crying. 

To the rest of them, Damen said, quietly, “Those were his wedding vows. He made a melody with them. Victoria asked me to put it in a music box, but I thought she might want to carry it with her.”

Laurent understood. Taking a part of Auguste wherever she went. It was something he had thought of. Like an amulet. 

But he didn’t have any, and he didn’t know if he deserved to have one either. 

“When Aimeric died,” Jord said, and they turned their eyes towards him. He looked pained, like if saying his name caused him an incredible amount of pain. Nikandros rubbed his back affectionately as he talked, “My therapist told me to write him a letter. I was sad because I had lost him, angry because he had chosen to die. Everything I wanted to tell him and that he couldn’t hear, I wrote it all down. And then, my therapist told me to burn it. I didn’t see the point to do so, but it helped, somehow. Like replying to a late message, or ending a conversation.”

“Closure,” Laurent whispered. Jord nodded. 

Victoria, who had stopped crying and had the locket hanging from her neck, asked, “Does anyone have a pen?”

They wrote letters. Some of them long enough to become essays, and some that were just a few words. Each of them wrote one, and then burnt it with the fire of the candles. 

It would be almost a year since Auguste’s death. A year where life and the act of living had become a difficult task for the people he left behind. 

But after death, and after the grief, and every single endless midnight they spent wondering if there was any hope for their broken hearts, they reminisced.

 

 

***

I’m not good with words, but I miss you, man.  A lot.

\- N.

 

***

Thank you for everything.

\- J.

 

***

I will take care of him. I promise. 

\- D.

 

***

I loved you, with every inch of my heart. And I will love you, Auguste, until the day I die.

\- V.

 

***

Goodbye.

_ I need to let you go. I can’t keep you here any longer.  _

_ Goodbye.  _

Find me again, in our next life.

\- L.

 

 

***

He told himself it was just a door.

But Laurent wasn’t good with doors. Not opening, or closing them. He wasn’t good at accepting the fact that he was both scared and nervous, and imagining every possible outcome left him with a twisted stomach and the sensation that he was about to puke his organs out.

_ It shouldn’t be like this. _

He didn’t get nervous. This wasn’t how it was.

He was confident in his skills, in his talent, in his years and years of practice and his fingers suffering for the sake of his music. Every broken string and bleeding nail led him to this point, to this door in front of him.

He deserved this.

A voice in his head kept telling him that he deserved this and a million of other doors.

But he couldn’t. He was afraid. So terribly afraid of both playing and not doing so. Of opening the door and leaving it shut. He was afraid of drawing a breath and a note, of being accepted or rejected.

Each scenario turned on a different panic alarm in his head and he wasn’t sure which one he was supposed to listen to. He wasn’t sure this was what he wanted, and yet he had made the impossible to get an audition.

“Laurent,” Professor Guillaume said, like reading his mind. He grabbed his shoulders and stared into his eyes. It was the first time they were ever so close and he found that he didn’t hate it. It felt awfully familiar, like retrieving something he thought he had lost a long time ago.  “You’ll do fine. You know this song perfectly.”

He nodded, because he couldn’t do much more as he was about to scream out of fear. Guillaume pat his shoulder and walked away. Just then he was aware of both Damen and Nicaise holding each of his hands. On Damen’s other side was Nikandros, and then Jord. And next to Nicaise was Victoria.

The six of them stared at the door.

He shuddered in a breath and closed his eyes. To his left, Damen squeezed his hand, “Lo?”

“Yes?”

“You can do this.”

He lied, “Of course I can.”

Damen said, “It’s okay to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Why are you trembling then?”

He was, in fact, shivering. He opened and closed his fists, but it didn’t stop. He swallowed back the nausea and thought, for a minute, he’d be sick.

“It’s alright,” Damen whispered, kissing his forehead, “We’ll be there.”

“First row,” Nicaise said, tugging at his side and smiling.

“This is very scary,” Nikandros whispered. Jord muttered something he didn’t understand. “What? It is. I can’t believe Auguste faced this by himself.”

“You’re not helping,” Jord said.

“Laurent,” Victoria said, and the next thing he knew, she was in front of him. She leaned closer and he reached down, by instinct. She held his face and kissed his cheek, ever so sweetly, “Play from the heart, okay?”

“Okay,” he nodded.

Then she smiled, “We should go grab our seats, I think you’ll be called any minute now.”

They left him, then. He watched them walk down the hall and disappear around a corner. Then, he was alone.

His uncle’s words, which always came back in the worst moments, reminded him of it.

_ You’re all alone, now. _

“Auguste,” he whispered, “Help me.” 

_ I’m scared. _

_ Please help me. _

_ I can’t do this if you’re not here. I need you here. _

After all, he had never played on a stage without Auguste before. And he couldn’t bring himself to go out there and see the empty seat where his brother would have been.

His chest was contracting, and he had a hard time keeping himself standing. Crouching down, he put his violin on the floor and hugged himself, trying to control his breathing. He was close to hyperventilating, the panic attack inside his head finding its way to the surface.

Closing his eyes, he tightened the grip on his skin and forced his brain to regain control.

_ You’re being pathetic. _

_ It’s just an audition. _

_ It’s what you wanted. _

_ Don’t screw it up. _

_ You always screw everything up. _

_ You can’t play. _

_ You’re not good enough. _

_ It was Auguste’s dream, not yours. _

He knew this voice. It was the one that made him stay in bed when he couldn’t find a good reason to get up, and the one that woke him up at night. The voice that haunted his nightmares and that came from his worst fears.

It was the voice of his lies, of his selfishness and pride. His depression, his anxiety, and the abuse he had survived. Clinging to him, trying to bring him back down to the dark places he had lived in for so many years.

Everything was noisy, too loud, and his thoughts were being drowned by it. He could feel his heart beating in the back of his throat and he wanted to, somehow, turn himself off. Like a machine.

If only he had a button he could press to shut himself down, to make it all stop. Deep inside he knew this was just in his head; he was afraid of happiness as he was afraid of misery.

He was afraid that he could have  _ this _ , this one good thing.  That finally, his life was beginning to make sense. It finally meant something and he understood what that was. He had friends, he had Damen and Nicaise and the violin, but he didn’t have Auguste. And he could pass this audition and attend the music conservatory, but he couldn’t have Auguste.

And the worst thing was that sometimes he realized he could be happy even when Auguste wasn’t there and it made him feel as though he was betraying him, even though he knew he wasn’t.

His mind and his heart weren’t working together and it was tearing him apart.

He was…deeply afraid and deeply sorry that sometimes he realized he could be happy, for the first time in so long, and Auguste wasn’t there. That, after the battle, he was ready to tell his brother the whole truth, the full story of how Laurent came to be the person he was before Auguste died, but he wasn’t there.

He was ready for so many things and yet he couldn’t share them with the one person that deserved more than anyone else to experience them too.

And it wasn’t true. It wasn’t that he needed Auguste to pass an audition. But he wanted him there so badly the line that divided  _ want  _ with  _ need _ was too thin.

It was scary. It was scary that he didn’t need Auguste like he should.

Laurent remembered how his mother used to say, sometimes, that she would rather chop her own limbs off before losing a child.

To him, losing Auguste had been like having each of his limbs but feeling as though he had none. Accepting his death had been like slowly finding the way to function again.

He didn’t want to let go, but he couldn’t do this anymore.

_ Open your eyes, Lo. _

It was another voice inside his head, countering the dark one. He knew it wasn’t real, it wasn’t the real Auguste, but he listened to it anyway.

Forcing his eyes opened, he stared at the empty hall and the door in front of him. There was no noise, and even when it felt as if hours had passed, the clock only marked two minutes past the time he had last seen.

_ You’ll be okay _ , and he could hear the grin behind his voice,  _ I’m always with you. _

_ You’re good enough. _

_ You deserve this. _

_ And no one can take this from you, except yourself. _

_ You’ll be okay. _

_ Breathe. _

_ You’re not alone. _

It wasn’t real; it was a voice in his head. A long-lost memory of who Auguste had been. But if he had to hold onto it, if Laurent had to focus on that small piece of Auguste that had remained within him, he would.

Because he was as capable as Auguste had been. He could pass an audition, he could pass many more.

He could play. He  _ would _ play.

“I’ll be okay,” he told himself, and very slowly, rose to his feet again. His heart was no longer racing, and he didn’t feel sick.

_ We’ll do this together. _

“I’m not alone.”

Laurent grabbed his violin, and opened the door.

 

 

***

They reminisced. Because after all, that was the motive of an homage. 

It was all about remembering. 

And music helped remember even the strangest feelings, those we don’t know how to explain. Music brought back the memories that combined the six senses; the taste of a ripe fruit of the childhood, the melting sun of a summer day we’re fond of. The  feeling we get in our stomachs when we’re underwater and the world is different before our eyes. 

It made Laurent remember how Auguste wrinkled his nose when he didn’t like something, and how he liked to eat pizza with a fork. And the ringing, echoing sound of his laugh. Vibrant and low. 

Charcy, in this occasion, was adorned in gold. It wasn’t the black, gloomy atmosphere he remembered from Aimeric’s funeral, but rather sparkly and bright, just exactly how Auguste was. 

There were pictures of him and his brother around the small stage, and the orchestra and the choir performed beautiful renditions of songs Auguste had composed and songs he always listed as his favourites. 

Teachers and ex-classmates talked about him, some fonder than others. They told stories about Auguste’s first years in Charcy, when Laurent was still in elementary school. Apparently he was one of those excited freshman who couldn’t get over the fact he got to play the piano in class every day. Or that there were so many activities to choose from he always signed up for something different each trimester. 

And it wasn’t that they told stories about how good Auguste had been to make it seem like he was a saint. They told stories that felt real, that he knew, even though he hadn’t been present, were completely real. He hadn’t been a saint, just  _ kind _ . 

He didn’t go around rescuing cats and helping grandmas cross the street ―it wouldn’t be surprising if that had been the case― he had been a teenager and a young adult and he had many values but also many flaws. 

To Laurent, it was important to be reminded of this. That Auguste wasn’t perfect, even though his biased perception didn’t allow him to completely agree. 

The homage helped to remind him his brother had been human. And he couldn’t keep carrying what had been his life, or the spectrum of his spirit, over his shoulder, like if it was something precious that couldn’t be broken. 

It wasn’t his job. 

He loved Auguste, he missed him even more than he could love him. But he couldn’t keep holding onto his memory or to his death. 

As the orchestra finished playing and the claps filled the room, Laurent stood up from his chair in the front row. He walked up stage, and stood in front of the microphone. 

It was their turn, to tell a story. 

A story about life, that started with death. 

He thought, when he started composing, that he wanted to recreate Auguste’s life. But as he went on, he realized he couldn’t. There was no way of telling Auguste’s life without reaching a point where you had to tell Laurent’s, and Damen’s, and Victoria’s, and Jord’s, and Nikandros’, and Nicaise’s, and Guillaume’s, and every person who had been influenced by his existence. 

Every person who held inside of them one of the pieces to his melody. 

And what they felt when he died, it wasn’t the emptiness of something he took away, but rather the part of him that stayed and refused to leave. It was worse than a void that couldn’t be filled, it was the fact that they had to leave with that tiny piece of Auguste in their hearts. 

Like protecting the flame of a candle with your hands so the wind doesn’t blow it away; it was the same. 

Every time their song was played, every time their words were sung, Auguste lived. 

“Auguste once told me,” he said, “that the heart holds a melody. And once we’re aware of it, there is no turning back. I didn’t understand him until after he died. I used to think he was too in love with everything, too in love with the whole concept of being alive and its paraphernalia. But I know now that it was just the side effect of finding that melody. It is that strange impulse that makes us do things that inevitably change our lives. 

“Like, for example, playing the violin. And I never understood him, because I always thought that melody was something I had to look for, instead it was something I had all along. Some people find it as soon as they’re born, others in childhood, and others not until they’re old. Once it’s there, anything else becomes part of the background of our life. It doesn’t give it meaning, it’s not just passion or vocation. 

“It’s the ignition of a small fire, the reason why we want to wake up the next morning. Why we make plans, why we learn and why we strive. The reason why Auguste composed songs, why people come to Charcy to teach, why people fly to the other part of the world to see something or someone.

“When Auguste died, he left the notes of his melody with us. And with those, we decided to make a song.”

Leaving the microphone on the stand, he stepped back to his position with the violin. He took a breath, found his posture, and nodded towards Guillaume, who gestured for the orchestra to start. 

Jord was leading the choir. Victoria was at the piano. 

It was black, just like Auguste’s had been. And it felt awfully familiar when he sat on it. 

Too awfully familiar.

He drew a sharp breath, “Amadeus.”

It couldn’t be, could it? 

It couldn’t be that it would come back to him like this. 

It couldn’t be that his brother’s heart would find its way back to him, just like this.

But the orchestra started playing, and soon enough he was too. 

The only thing he could think about while moving his fingers on the strings was his brother’s words, and how ridiculous he was. 

How true it had been, in the end. 

_ When you feel lonely, when you miss me, play me a song. I will come, and listen to you play. I promise you, Laurent.  _

_ I will be there. _


	32. Le vent se lève

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to say "this is it" but, well, you see...
> 
> This is it. 
> 
> This is how the story ends, mes amies. 
> 
> There's still an epilogue that will be posted on the 12th, to celebrate the anniversary of our journey. But I feel like I should say something now. Something clever and relevant. 
> 
> What can I say, other than thank you? Thank you. From the bottom of my poor, broken writer heart. Thank you for everything, every comment and every kudo and for following this story even though it took me a full year to finish it. Even though it was really sad, and I made you all cry. Even though this was an experiment, to see if I could write something longer than four thousand words, to see if I could create a world and characters I loved, develop a plot and...just, write a novel. (And in another freaking language, what the hell).
> 
> I wanted to see if I had that melody inside me. My own anthem. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for giving me a chance. For being so respectful, and interested and kind. Thank you for giving Laurent a chance, and Tchaikovsky and Mozart and Debussy and every single composer whose music I borrowed. Thank you for the fanart, thank you for the playlists, thank you for the tumblr messages and tweets. Thank you for wishing me well whenever my life got tough --and boy it did-- on the way. 
> 
> Étude gave me so many things and it changed so many others for me in beautiful ways I never thought possible. I didn't think this fanfic I created from just a simple idea could become an original novel. I didn't think it could give me so many friends, that it could make me a better writer. I learned so many things while writing, not only about the music I've been enjoying so dearly since I was a child but also things about myself I hadn't realized before. Laurent's journey through grief and acceptance and healing gave me the chance to explore aspects of my psyche as well, and understand who I really want to be. 
> 
> I remember someone in the comments telling me I made them want to write again, and that was so shocking for me that I don't think I'll ever forget it. The fact that my words could do that to someone, that I could change someone with my art....is so surreal. So magical. So lovely. Just like Auguste's music. 
> 
> I think I'll continue to be emotional when I post the epilogue, I pretty much will be, but I just needed to tell you guys this right now. 
> 
> Thank you to all of my betas. Each of you gave something important to this story and it could have never been the project it is today without you. Ellen, partner in crime, our brainstorming sessions and your infinite support helped me so much you can't even begin to imagine. And I love you. So, so damn much. Kelly, fuck, you're incredible. As a writer, as a beta and as friend. And Lee, although you couldn't continue with me, the times we spent selecting music and revising the high school arc are probably my favourite memories. 
> 
> It is not our farewell yet, I'll hopefully see you all next week.  
> For now, enjoy the chapter<3
> 
> How lovely it is, to write.
> 
> P.S. We reached 500 kudos!

When Auguste was in the hospital, Laurent would read to him.

During the final stages of the cancer that killed him, he chose a very cliché romance novel to read. Laurent didn’t appreciate the genre, but because it was Auguste and they had read all the other novels in their stock, he agreed to his brother’s wishes.

The plot is simple, if you dismiss the whole arc about alchemy and hidden family secrets that lead to absolutely nowhere. Lucy is sick and dying –coincidentally—but her spirit remains intact. William is healthy, but loses his life over an obsession while touring around Europe.  And Alex, William’s older brother, is a doctor.

The ending was predictable. After five hundred wasted pages of nonsense,  William dies, and his heart is given to Lucy by Alex, who doesn’t even know the heart he had in his gloved hands, was his younger brother’s.

And Laurent, at that point, he thought slamming the book against the wall before burning it was actually a favour to both him and any other unfortunate soul who could want to read it. But even if it was that terrible, he couldn’t destroy it.

Auguste had liked it, somehow. There was a quote he particularly liked, to the point of highlighting it and reciting it in more than one occasion.

_ ‘I am what I am, and what I am I will always be. But if one day I’m not what I am, and what I am becomes someone else, will our lives still be connected? If, one day, I come back to you, will you know it’s me, or will I lose that too? Is my soul what makes me, or I am what makes my soul?’ _

How curious it was, that the quote from a book he so passionately detested, was the first thing to come to his mind when he saw Amadeus.

The second he saw it, he knew.

It was his brother’s heart.  Like William’s.

Laurent thought he could almost hear it beating, thudding on the stage, resembling an open surgery.

And it was coming back to him, in such an unexpected way he was almost ashamed of facing it. He wanted to apologize, but he wasn’t sure to whom. If to Auguste, or Amadeus, or Nicaise, or Damen, or Victoria, or just himself.

Himself. He owed himself, perhaps, more apologies than anyone else. 

The homage had ended. Most people remained, however, and talked, or helped dismantle the stage. It was a weekday, after all. There would be classes the next morning.

Laurent put Cecil back into his case and walked to the piano. Ever since they had finished their performance, Victoria had remained on the bench, as if she was attached to it.  

Carefully, he touched her shoulder. She didn’t look at him, but held his hand, “It’s…”

Whispering, “Yes, it is.”

“Did you know?” Victoria asked.

“No.”

“It’s like magic,” she whispered, pressing her fingers softly against the black keys, “Every time I think I’m one step closer to move on, he comes back.” Her face was sparkling, as though she had been touched with glitter, “In the most beautiful ways.” 

“It’s like a book,” he said, and smiled as well. 

She giggled, then turned to him, “It is.”

“Can I…?”

Victoria nodded, scooting over the bench so Laurent could sit. She sighed, then, “Should we play something?”

“Four hands?” he asked.

“Do you know  _ Cortège _ ?”

Laurent frowned as he thought and rolled up his sleeves, “I think so. You can play primo.”

“Alright.”

They started to play. Laurent had only ever played four hands with Auguste, and although Victoria’s hands were smaller, the sensation was similar. She was exceptional and played very fast, so it was hard for him to keep up with the notes. Especially considering he had not practiced piano in over a year. The time he played before fainting clearly didn’t count. 

_ Cortège _ was a short piece by Debussy, part of a  _ Petite Suite _ he once wrote for a couple of children. It was relatively easy for that reason, which was probably why Victoria had picked it. Even though Laurent didn’t remember it very well, he could try to follow the lead.

Debussy’s piece was so light and different from his usual, deeply-felt romantic essence that most people didn’t believe it was his work the first time they listened to it. Laurent certainly didn’t, but he preferred this sort of playfulness he evoked. It was happy and innocent, like the giggle of a baby.

If he wasn’t mistaken,  _ Cortège _ was inspired on one of Paul Verlaine’s poems. He remembered reading it, and then sitting at the piano, trying to figure out how to play it without Auguste’s help. 

He also remembered how it felt when the music fit perfectly what he had read. Connecting his favourite worlds into one, and being able to paint the  _ comédie _ inside his mind. It wasn’t his favourite from the suite, that would be  _ Ballet _ , which was more of an energetic dance, but since it was for two people, he hardly ever played it. 

“De Vere, you’re out of practice,” Victoria said, grinning.

“He most certainly is,” Guillaume said.

He stopped abruptly, accidently slamming on the keys and producing a high pitched noise that caught the attention of everyone still in the auditorium.

Laurent didn’t know how to start. So he said, “This is Auguste’s piano.”

Guillaume, who was carrying a box full of decorations, simply looked at him for a moment, likely deciding how to proceed with this conversation. Calmly, he said, “I know.”

“So you were the man I spoke to on the phone that day,” Laurent said, stating facts.

Professor Guillaume sighed, and then put the box down, “I was.”

“Then,” a single, terrible, word burnt his insides, “Why?”

_ Why didn’t you let me have it back?” _

_ Why did you take it away from me, knowing what it meant? _

Next to him, Victoria held his hand.

Before he could demand an answer and lose complete control of his emotions, to his surprise, Jord came up to them.

“I asked him to.”

He couldn’t stop the surprise in his voice from showing, “Jord?”

“After I took the pictures,” Jord said, almost sadly, “I didn’t have the money. I knew you would regret it and I wanted to keep it safe, so I asked him to buy it and keep it here until…”

“Until what?”

“I don’t know,” Jord whispered. Laurent’s eyes filled with tears. “Until you wanted it back, until we spoke again, I don’t know. I just wanted it to be safe.”

Laurent asked, carefully, holding back, “Does this mean I can have it back?”

The three of them turned to Guillaume, who shook his head but said, “I don’t gain enough with my teacher’s salary to buy your piano, Laurent. But I doubt the headmistress will be opposed to the idea.”

“So what you mean is that...this was a Charcy investment?”

“Yes. In exchange, Jord agreed to come help with the choir next year as a volunteer. Guess you guys will work together now.”

As Jord and Laurent exchanged a glance, clearly meaning there were things they both needed to discuss, Victoria insisted, “But can he have it back?”

Sighing, Guillaume gave in, “It was never ours to begin with.”

“Just say the word,” she said, impatiently. 

“Yes, he can have it back.” He picked up the box again,  “Mrs. Romannoti, you’re a very stubborn lady.”

Smiling, Victoria stood up from the piano, “Thank you, I know. Do you need help?”

“I believe we could use some extra hands in the music room. Apparently it’s a chaos at the moment,” Guillaume said. 

“Very well. I’ll see you later, Laurent,” she said, and both of them left while chatting amiably. Or so it seemed. 

To Jord, he said, “Thank you.”

And from the bottom of his very damaged heart, he meant it. 

Jord shrugged, smiling, “What are best friends for if not to stop each other when we’re being self destructive?” 

Laurent’s eyes widened slightly, “Does that mean you’ve…?”

Nodding, “I haven’t smoked a single cigarette in a week, now. And it’s...fucking me up. There’s no better way to say it. But you were right, and if I’m going to help with the choir in September, I’m going to need my voice again.”

Quietly, he said, with just a hint of melancholy, “We can’t get rid of music, can we?” 

“We can’t. And it might kill us if we try.” 

Laurent thought he had most likely proven that theory to be true. 

From now on, until the day he inevitably died, his life would be driven by music. And everything he did, and everything he said, and everything he thought of, would have music behind it. 

It wasn’t a burden and it wasn’t an obsession. He was just a musician. 

The only thing they could do was play. Play when they’re happy, play when they’re breaking apart. 

Play, not because it will take away the pain or erase the memories, or make it all seem less important, but because playing will bring you back to life. 

Because, eventually, it will make you happy. 

And happiness, although still a work in progress, was something Laurent seemed to like.

 

 

***

A little while after, Damen found him. 

The auditorium was empty, and after some entertaining tricks, Laurent managed to steal the key from Guillaume with the help of Jord and Victoria. Now that he was reunited with Amadeus, he didn’t want to leave him. 

“I was looking for you,” Damen said, strolling inside with the jacket of his suit thrown over his shoulder, “What are you up to?”

Laurent looked at him playfully, before answering, with sincerity and a small smile, “Mischief.”

Damen chuckled, “No doubt about that.” 

Then, propping one knee on the edge of the wooden floor and hiking himself up, Damen jumped on stage. 

“Tah-dah,” he sang. 

Rolling his eyes, Laurent said, “There are stairs, you know,  _ brute _ .” 

“But where’s the fun in that?”

“Do you always find the fun in everything you do?”

Damen smiled, like a reflex. Dimples and teeth showing. “I try to. I don’t always succeed, though. Like, I can’t find the fun in...adulting, for example.”

Laurent laughed, “Adulting. Is that how we’re calling it now?”

“I mean,” Damen continued, trying not to laugh, “Grocery shopping  _ is _ tedious. And taxes. Fuck taxes.” 

“Fuck taxes,” Laurent imitated, “Delightful.”

“They’re diabolical, I can guarantee you.”

“I’m sure they are.”

“I’m serious.”

“Of course.”

“Why does it sound like you’re mocking me?” Damen shook his head.

“It’s all in your head.”

“Laurent.”

“Damen.”

Damen gave him a look that made him chuckle, again. Being so sensitive to happy emotions was a strange thing. Like being intoxicated, without the sick part. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Damen whispered, stepping forward and kissing his forehead. 

Laurent closed his eyes, “I got the piano back, of course I am in a good mood.”

“I meant in general. You’ve been in a good mood lately and it makes me…”

“Happy?”

“More than that.”

Opening his eyes again, he looked up to Damen watching him like he was a fallen angel on earth and it made his violinist heart exceed its melting point. 

“Do you want to play with me?” he asked. 

Surprised, “Are you sure? I’m not…” A breathy laugh, “very good yet.”

“You’ve been practicing with Victoria, right?” Laurent asked, “What have you played besides Beethoven’s  _ Ode to Joy _ and Mozart’s  _ A Little Night Music _ ?”

Damen faked a sigh and pressed his hands together, “I’m afraid that’s everything in my concert list.”

“Would you mind…” he stopped, reformulated the question in his mind, “There’s a song I’ve been meaning to show you. I thought I would never feel…I thought we’d never get to the point where I’d be able to show you. But now, I really want to.” 

“I’ll try to play the best I can,” Damen said, giving him the softest smile and sitting next to him on the bench. 

It was infuriating, how beautiful and sweet he could be. And how Laurent could have all of it. 

How Damen could be the sweetest someone had ever been to him. 

_ For fuck’s sake, get a grip.  _

_ Remember to breathe, Laurent.  _

“I wrote it for violin, but I’ll give you the sheets for piano,” Laurent said, placing his hand next on the keyboard. Damen did the same. “I wrote this for you, a while ago. Well, about you, to be more precise.” 

“You did?”

Looking up into warm dark eyes, “I was trying to...put you into music.” 

“Dear God, Laurent.”

“What is it?”

Damen bit his lip and then his cheeks turned considerably red. It was bright enough that Laurent could see it on his dark skin, “I thought I couldn’t be more in love with you, that there was no way I could keep falling, but you keep proving me wrong.”

“I was born to prove you wrong.”

Shaking his head, Damen rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, “Okay, so, how do we do this?”

Laurent took Damen’s hand gently and pressed it over the keys, “Just repeat this chord. The second part is a bit trickier, but I think Victoria can help you with it.”

“No,” Damen whispered, “I want you to teach me this one.”

For a second, Laurent didn’t react. And then he did, way too fast, “If you insist.”

Looking over the sheets, Damen asked, “Does it have a title?”

“ _ Papillon _ .”

The song was simple, but enchanting.  _ Charming _ , even, Just exactly how Damen was. Technically, it was perfect for an amateur. With only a few variations on the right hand, the left one playing a repetition as accompaniment. It was tender, gentle,  _ kind _ . Comforting, accepting,  _ Papillon _ was a song about warm but breezy summer afternoons spent under lemon trees, and quiet kisses shared under the light seeping through the stained glass wall in the auditorium of Charcy. 

They played, and they kissed, and they talked, and they kissed some more, with the colours from the stained glass reflected on their faces. 

Like magic, like a book. 

Laurent had no idea life could reach a level where he’d wonder if he was dreaming. He never thought he would get to question the realness of what he was experiencing. 

“I was thinking,” Laurent said, between the kisses, “of selling my parents’ house.”

Damen pulled away to look at him, “If that’s what you truly want...if it will make you happy, then…”

“I could get an apartment, with an extra room for Nicaise, and we could…” Laurent frowned, “You’re distracting.”

Damen laughed, “What? I’m not doing anything.”

His swollen lips, his messy curls, and his unbuttoned shirt were  _ something.  _ But Laurent could never say it. 

And it wasn’t because it was a lie, or a truth with two sides. 

It was just that he was too in love with this man, and the embarrassment would kill him. 

Flushing, “Do shut up.”

Damen smiled, but remained silent. After a whole minute, he grabbed his hand and said, “If I learn this on piano, can we play together sometime? As...a duet, I mean. You with your violin and me...I know I will never be as good as Auguste or Victoria but...maybe, someday, we could try…”

Putting a finger to his lips, Laurent whispered, “Damen. I don’t care whether you’re good or not, I will play with you.”

_ Because I love you.  _

_ I love you. _

_ I love you. _

_ I love you. _

Quietly, they whispered, “I love you.”

 

 

***

Next to a vending machine, hidden in a hall in Charcy, two boys stood. 

One of them, with pastel pink curls, leaned over to kiss the shorter of the two, his skin fair and his eyes blue. 

It seemed like a scene taken from a movie, one Laurent and Damen weren’t supposed to see. 

“Is that…?” Damen whispered. 

Laurent nodded, already turning around to go back the way they came from. 

It was Nicaise, kissing a boy and smiling. A smile so different from any other facial expression Laurent had seen on him that it was not only astonishing but also slightly confusing.

“And who’s the…?”

“I assume that must be Paris,” Laurent said, tugging on his hand, “Come on, let’s go.”

When Damen started to protest, Laurent almost glared, “Have you forgotten how it feels to have a kiss interrupted?”

Damen blinked, and then, clearly remembering, started to walk away, “Let’s go.”

_ Plus,  _ Laurent didn’t say _ , I think that’s his first.  _

 

 

***

“Do you think,” Nicaise asked, “that they’ll take me away?”

Laurent turned his gaze away from his laptop and towards Nicaise, who was currently sitting in front of the glass doors leading to the backyard. It was sunny and bright, unusual for May, but Nicaise sat inside like he was prisoner of his own nightmares. 

They had finished violin lessons early, mostly because Nicaise seemed too distracted to continue, and Laurent had suggested ordering something for lunch and giving him the rest of Saturday free so he could have fun or whatever teenagers did. 

Thing is, Nicaise didn’t seem interested in the TV, or a videogame console Damen had bought for him, or even his iPod, to which he was really attached to. He simply sat there, staring at nothing in particular, while petting Vivi’s head. 

Vivi meowed from time to time, like insinuating Nicaise to open the door, but he didn’t move. 

Laurent, who knew exactly what Nicaise meant, said, “I don’t know.”

After the meeting, the men from social services had gone to the nasty place Nicaise had been living with his father until Laurent took him in.  Apparently, the man had been out of it for the past few weeks, to the point of almost dying of alcohol poisoning. When they asked him where his son was, he claimed to have none. 

His only son had died with his wife, he said. 

A couple days after that, Laurent got a call from Professor Guillaume, saying the agents had said they would let Nicaise finish the school year in Charcy, and that they hadn’t made a decision to where they would take him after. Nicaise had grandparents on his father’s side, that he visited sometimes. But they were senile, his grandmother could never remember him and his grandfather had Parkinson’s Disease. 

They couldn’t take care of a teenager. On his mother’s side, he remembered having an aunt, but they couldn’t contact her. Which meant that, without any relative to care for him, Nicaise would be put in the foster care system. 

And that worried him. Laurent had thought about it, applying to be his foster parent. But he was only twenty-one, and besides not being taken seriously, he would need to get a stable job and drop the music conservatory, which he wasn’t nowhere near ready to do. 

He hadn’t been admitted yet, but he hoped he would be. 

Plus, he was still kind of a mess. A little. And he couldn’t do that to Nicaise. He couldn’t push him away like he pushed everyone else, and he knew maybe there’d be times where he needed to be alone and deal with his pain again. Nicaise didn’t deserve to suffer from that as well. 

So, in the end, truth was, Laurent was terrified and his stomach was tied in a hundred and one knots, but he couldn’t let Nicaise know. 

“I like it here,” Nicaise said, voice filled with melancholy. 

Laurent closed the laptop and moved to sit next to Nicaise, in front of the glass doors. He touched his hair, fixed it a little. Nicaise didn’t seem to mind. 

“I like having you here,” Laurent whispered, “I had forgotten how it was to live with someone else.”

“I had forgotten too,” Nicaise said, not meeting his eyes. 

Laurent grabbed his chin, lifting his head softly, “Look at me.”

Finally, Nicaise did. His eyes were stubbornly stopping the tears from spilling. Laurent looked into them. Sometimes he forgot Nicaise was only a child, barely fifteen. And at that age, from what Laurent could remember, everything hurt. And everything was confusing. 

And we can’t speak up because we don’t know how to. And if no one realizes, we’re not going to take the first step. At fourteen, we can’t tell when we need to call for help. 

“You don’t need to do that,” Laurent whispered, “You don’t need to be strong all the time, Nicaise.”

Nicaise snapped, shoving him away and scaring Vivi as well, “It’s just not  _ fair, _ ” his voice broke as he went on, “I like it here. I like living with you, I like Damen, and Victoria,  I like school and I have…”

“What?”

Nicaise simply shrugged, then bit his lip, “Friends. A home. I don’t know.”

“Whatever happens, Nicaise, I need you to know that I won’t abandon you.”

Nicaise scoffed, “What if you enter that French school you applied for?”

“I won’t go.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m not abandoning you for a music school.”

He understood it now, how hard it was. 

Back when Auguste entered the conservatory, he applied to several schools. His first choice was one in France, that he used to dream about when he was in elementary. Auguste was accepted in every school he applied to, but he chose the local conservatory to be with Laurent.

And at the moment, Laurent had hated him for it. For the fact that he had applied, knowing that he would leave him behind. And then he hated his brother even more when he found out he had been accepted, and rejected the offer. 

It was the same, now. 

Guillaume had made him apply to at least five conservatories around the world, sending videos and having interviews through Skype. Even though Laurent had wanted to go to the local one from the beginning, for a while, he had also considered going to France. 

Partly because of Auguste. 

Auguste had sacrificed many things for him, things that he couldn’t understand before because he was too young and too tangled in his own web of lies and deception. 

But seeing Nicaise now, and being in such an awfully similar situation, made him understand. 

The story, inevitably, was about to repeat itself. 

They sat in silence for a while, until Vivi started to meow, demanding to be outside. Ever since the temperature had started to rise, Vivi had been more in the backyard with the lemon tree than inside the house, which was a bit odd. And Laurent had spent a whole afternoon googling which plants were safe for cats, since he seemed to enjoy nibbling on those too. 

“I heard you,” Laurent said, getting up and opening the glass door. 

Vivi sprinted outside, walked around a bit, and then decided on a comfortable spot to lay down and take the sun.

Looking down at Nicaise, he said, “You too. Outside.”

Groaning, “Why?”

_ Because you’re a child.  _

_ Because you deserve to enjoy things like nice weather.  _

“Because you need some air, and I could use some lemons,” Laurent responded. “There’s a basket in the garage that you can use. Come on, move your ass for once.”

Nicaise rolled his eyes, but obeyed. As Laurent resumed his task of ordering food for lunch, he watched Nicaise gently pick the lemons from the tree. 

Soon, it would be summer. 

 

 

***

The concert hall was crowded. 

There was an impressive difference compared to the other rounds of the Royal. Because it was the final, entire families went to see the performances, as well as teachers and university representatives. 

It was so full that it was easier to compare it to a sea of people, or a shoal of fish. 

This time, Nicaise didn’t seem to be nervous. He was surprisingly calm while Laurent was freaking out inwardly. 

It was soon to be their turn. The girl who had been placed third, Alice Viele, was now finishing a rather great rendition of Schubert’s  _ Erlkönig D. 328 _ , a disturbing tone poem originally written for voice and piano and transcribed for solo violin by Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst, one of Paganini’s successors and as crazy as the man in question. 

The piece was hard enough in itself, but attempting to play it on the violin was like making a pact with the devil. Because Paganini had a condition that made his joints looser than they should, he had an ability to play the violin than many others lacked. Many others being normal people with healthy hands. And so, his successors played just as insanely recklessly as he did. Which is why many people always believed the legends that said Paganini had sold his soul to satan. 

Alice Viele had a similar reputation, at this point. In the first round, her choice had been Paganini’s  _ Caprice No. 24 in A minor.  _ A piece Laurent had detested when he was in high school. 

In a general rule, Laurent didn’t enjoy Paganini in the slightest. He didn’t like his sounds and he certainly didn’t like playing them either. In spite of his personal taste, he had to admit, however, playing a Paganini piece was consuming, in all senses of the word. 

They required time, skills, dedication, talent, and a little bit of  _ folie _ . 

_ Erlkönig D. 328  _ was through-composed. Originally, the poem by Goethe had four characters, The Narrator, The Father, The Son and The Erkling, and each of them had different vocal ranges when performed with voice and piano. With the violin, however, the interpretation of four different characters lied in the dexterity of the musician. Playing more brusquely for the Erkling and softer, higher notes for the son. 

Backstage, Nicaise and Laurent watched the contestants. Damen was somewhere in the public with the rest. It was the final round of the most important competition for young violinists, and Laurent and Nicaise were playing together. 

“She’s good,” Nicaise whispered, 

“She is,” Laurent said, “But even though she has technically mastered the pieces, Odette is still the judges’ favourite, and you’re right behind her. Don’t let her intimidate you.”

Frowning, Nicaise looked at him, “She looks...angry.”

Laurent watched her, “She’s too tense. You can feel the tension building up on her neck just by seeing her, and her wrist is probably hurting.”

As Alice finished her performance, the cheers of the crowd echoed even backstage. And his violinist heart started to race. 

Turning to him, Nicaise said, “Regretting your decision?”

“Honestly? I am.”

“It’ll be fine,” Nicaise shrugged,  “You wrote the song anyway.”

“Easy to say,” Laurent whispered, “I’ve never played a piano accompaniment before.”

When Nicaise had asked him to play with him, Laurent refused immediately. He had finished Auguste’s étude,  but he didn’t have the piano skills to play it. Much less in the final round of the Royal. If he made a mistake, which was likely to happen, he’d ruin any possible chance for Nicaise. 

And yet, he had not been able to convince Victoria to play it instead, and she ended up convincing him that playing it himself was for the best. 

_ “There are some bonds I can’t break.” _

A voice through the speakers called them onstage. The piece they were playing,  _ Étude for piano and solo violin. _

“It’s not an accompaniment,” Nicaise said, “It’s a duet.” 

In a way, it all seem to come full circle. They walked on stage, bowed together, and took their places. 

Sitting down on the piano felt strange, like he didn’t properly belong there. He was used to his spot as the violinist, with his back to the piano and the gaze ahead. And yet, in the end, he had fallen to the place his brother had always treasured. 

This was the view Auguste always had. The extension of the instrument he so dearly loved and the dazzling lights reflected on its surface. If he closed his eyes, he could forget the public was there. 

Looking up, Laurent turned to Nicaise, waiting for approval. Once Nicaise had settled the violin on his shoulder, he gave him a nod and Laurent took a silent breath. 

He began. Originally, Auguste had set to play the piece in a 2/4 time. But as they practiced together, Nicaise and him had decided to play it on a slower 4/8 instead. It was very short, not even reaching seven minutes, but the lingering melody made it seem longer. 

He began, his fingers moving swiftly on the piano. He looked ahead at the music sheets, not wanting to watch his hands in case he made a mistake too early to cover it up. It made him incredibly nervous, and he was too tense. It reflected on his music. 

It was supposed to be soft, like a caress, a kiss on the palm of the hand. But his heart couldn’t stay calm. He could feel droplets of sweat on his hairline. 

_ What is it, Lo?  _

_ I can’t play like you, Auguste.  _

_ And why would you want to play like me?  _

Nicaise played on his cue. His start was perfect, the violin slowly making it’s way into the piano’s world. Dancing around the main tone until he joined, slipping in gracefully, making it seem almost an accident, a pleasant encounter to be together. 

Like a meet-cute in a movie. 

It all had been like this. Like an accident, a wonderful coincidence, to be born a violinist.To feel so deeply, to cry so wholeheartedly, to love a man until he forgot his own name. 

To lose so much, to gain twice of the price he had paid for his talent. 

To be a brother and to love a brother. 

This was their étude, a piece of technical and virtuosic difficulty, focused on training and refining a specific aspect of their lives. 

This was how they came to be. How they found each other again in a piano, connected through life and death, tied, forever, by a song they composed. 

It started off with a funeral, followed by the return of someone Laurent used to love. And how these two contradictory facts, the act of both losing love and finding it again, could create not chaos, but harmony. 

How he could have lost something so dearly precious, only to find it back again within himself. 

How Laurent de Vere, got to believe once more, that this life, although not beautiful, was worth living. For the songs there were to make, and those who had yet to listen. For the last étude Auguste had written, and the first one of his own repertoire. 

A story for the people that, like him, were lost and made mistakes.For those who grieved and suffered in silence. Those whose lives had been snatched, whose future had been tainted in black. For those who woke up wishing they were dead, and those who missed the loved ones that succeeded. 

And every single person who is in pain, who is having a hard time, who thinks they don’t deserve to open their eyes. 

Laurent would play for all of them. Because he knew how hard it was to regain hope after it’s been lost. He knew how hard it is to miss, and to love, and forgive and be forgiven. 

He wanted to tell them, to let them know, he was on their side. And to the small boy hiding in a closet, choking in his own tears, swallowing his screams, the one that grew up to lose a brother, and a father and a mother, he wanted to tell him he’d be alright. 

_ This is how musicians live. On a stage, under the lights, with our joints crying in pain, and our our backs straight. We play, and we play, and life keeps its course, the world keeps on spinning, and we never stop playing.  _

_ This is how we breathe, and we love, and we feel.  _

_ Not for the applause, or the medals, and the honorable mentions.  _

_ Music touches people, it changes lives, it gives us strength to fight, to laugh, to cry, to be human. To be the impossible dreams everyone else tried to take from you. Music is sincere and it’s loyal, just like a friend.  _

His right hand almost got lost, stumbling a note, and his heart skipped a beat. Nicaise was, however, playing his best. The violin was nothing but pure and controlled. Opening his eyes, Nicaise asked him a silent question. Laurent shook his head a bit. 

It was alright. 

He wasn’t a great pianist, but he wasn’t afraid anymore. His joints weren’t as rigid as they were during the first two minutes. Feeling tranquil, Laurent realized then that the piece had now three voices. It wasn’t just Nicaise and him playing, but also Auguste. His spirit was there between them.

This was his farewell. 

This was how Auguste said goodbye, in the most beautiful form he had found. 

Slowly, he grew conscious of the public again, and Nicaise found his eyes again as they played towards the end. The tension from the middle section was subduing, leaving traces of nostalgia, as they reached the coda. 

The dream scenario they had managed to draw, with pastel colours like a sunset sky was fading away. With quiet, melodious notes, the piece ended. 

Violin and piano stopped at the same time, but neither of them moved. Slowly, he found his legs again. He couldn’t feel one of them, but he stood up anyway, and walked next to Nicaise. They bowed again. 

The public, who appeared to have been frozen in time all throughout their performance, were brought back to life. And they clapped, and they cried, and they cheered. 

Closing his eyes, Chopin’s words came to his mind. 

_ “In all my life I have never again been able to find such a beautiful melody.” _

 

 

***

“Here,” Laurent said, presenting him a fully bloomed red rose, “I brought you a flower.”

Damen, who had just barely managed to find his voice after Laurent’s performance, stared at him in a bit of a shock. 

It had been the most powerful seven minutes of his whole life. He had been such in awe that he couldn’t even cry. He couldn’t do anything but watch. From his perspective, it had been like watching Auguste and Laurent on stage again, but that couldn’t be true. 

They worked so well together, they played like they were trying to comfort the audience after a heartbreak. And maybe they were. 

Damen felt like he was walking on a cloud, his reality tainted with pastel blue. 

He said, “A flower?”

Laurent nodded, “Someone in the public threw roses on stage. They’re not supposed to do that, but Nicaise found the face of one of the judges rather amusing in its utter disbelief and horror.”

Taking it, Damen smiled and resisted the urge to bury his nose in it, “Thank you.” And then, looking around, “Where’s Nicaise?”

“Paris came to see him,” Laurent said, with a hint of a smile on his lips, “I have to go back soon. They’ll be announcing the winners and I should be there as protocole.”

Damen wanted to tell him how he felt. He wanted to tell him how proud he was, and how incredibly emotional his song was. He wanted to tell him that he loved him, and that he will love him for all eternity.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t find words. 

“You only came here to give me a flower?” 

“Of course not,” Laurent said, and then he leaned over, almost sitting on his lap. Good thing the rest of the people were entertained by their conversations, and if they noticed, they didn’t really care. “I also came for this.” 

Their lips brushed, and Damen was ready to give himself into the kiss when the host announced the judges had finished their discussion. 

Smiling, Laurent leaned back, “ _ Pas de veine _ .”

_ Tough luck.  _

Before Damen could react, Laurent grinned and ran away, towards the backstage entrance. He was about to yell after him, but decided not to. 

Instead, he twirled the rose stem between his hands, and smiled.

“What a tease.”

 

 

***

Nicaise didn’t win the Royal. He ended up in third place, right under Odette de León, who won by playing Bach’s _ Chaconne _ and Alice Viele, with  _ Erlkönig.  _ Both of them deserved their places, applauses and recognitions, and he thought he deserved his as well. 

Laurent and him had bended almost every rule there was, and it was only a miracle they hadn’t been disqualified. 

In spite of everything, as he received his ribbon and bronze crown shaped-brooch, he found out that he didn’t really care. 

In reality, he had never really cared. 

What he was looking for and had longed for a long time, he found anyway. He didn’t need a competition to tell him how good of a musician he was, or even if he was one at all. He wouldn’t go to France, and he didn’t need to. 

He would be okay. He was, for the first time in his short life, finally okay. With himself, and the world around him. He was satisfied with his actions, and he didn’t regret a thing. 

Many musicians, upon failing at a competition, started to regret their song choices, or how they wasted too many hours that they could’ve spent practicing. How, if maybe someone else had failed, they could have won instead. 

Nicaise wasn’t one of them, possibly would never become. 

Proudly, he smiled. The two girls to his side did as well, and the three of them held hands. 

They bowed together, once more, for their audience. 

_ How lovely it is,  _ he thought,  _ to play the violin. _

 

 

***

They were fashionably late. 

But it had taken a good while and a great amount of energy to wake up Nicaise early on his first day of summer vacations. 

Charcy remained opened until August, for administrative reasons, but the majority of students were absent. Only those who were resitting exams could be seen in the halls. 

Guillaume had called them a few days before, saying there would be a meeting the social service agents referring Nicaise’s future, now that school was officially over. 

“We’re going to have to run,” Laurent said, once they reached the gates of the school. 

“If I beat you, you have to buy me an Oreo milkshake.”

“And if I win, you do the dishes for two weeks.” 

Nicaise shrugged, “You’re old and I’m faster.”

They ran, across the courtyard and through the doors, Nicaise’s laugh echoing in the empty halls and classrooms. They ran, pushing and shoving each other, trying to win, although Nicaise was considerably faster. 

Once they reached Guillaume’s office, they stood silent and waited a few minutes to catch their breaths before knocking on the door and walking inside. 

Angus and Amelia, surprisingly smiled as they entered. Guillaume did too, although Laurent could sense a hint of uneasiness in it. Next to him, there was a woman who, judging by their proximity and the way they stood together, Laurent presumed must be his wife. 

When they were all sitting, almost in a circle, Amelia smiled and said to Nicaise, “Your teacher told us you won third place on the music competition. Congratulations.” 

Nicaise nodded, and said, politely “Thank you.”

“I think we should go directly to the point,” Angus suggested. 

“Yes. Well, the thing is, in the end we couldn’t contact anyone from Nicaise’s family. And, in the office we thought we’d have to assign a foster family, but fortunately, we were able to find a better solution,” Amelia explained, still smiling brightly. 

Laurent nodded, “Which is…?”

Both of the agents turned to Guillaume and the woman. She smiled, at them, her eyes lingering longer on Nicaise. The first thing Laurent noticed was her perfect white teeth, and then the fallen of her long, curly ginger hair. 

“This is my wife,” Guillaume said. He took her hand softly, “Marion.”

“Nice to meet you, Nicaise, Laurent,” she said. 

Guillaume spoke again, not giving them chance to respond. Laurent had never seen him so nervous before,“We signed up as foster parents a while ago, but paperwork is long and so we hadn’t had the chance to...you know. But social services called me, regarding Nicaise, saying it would also be much better if he was with someone he already knew and since we had all the requirements, I thought...well, we wanted to get your opinion first, but...what do you think, Nicaise? If you came to live with us?”

Nicaise seemed to be in shock. 

The four of them waited, until he finally spoke, “Does this mean...I can stay...here? In Arles?”

Amelia nodded, still smiling. Laurent didn’t know how she could do it. 

“You can keep attending Charcy. Our home is not far from here, and you’ll have your own room and your privacy. You can stay with Laurent during the weekends, if you want, and the holidays. And he can come visit you whenever he likes, but if he’s going to enter the conservatory, I don’t expect to see him so often.” 

That made Nicaise chuckle. Turning to Laurent, he said, “What do you think?”

Laurent asked him, “What do  _ you _ think?”

Nicaise shrugged, but said, with a smile, “I think it’s okay.”

“Then it’s okay,” Laurent said. 

Biting his lip, Nicaise looked at the couple and nodded, “Alright.”

Guillaume and Marion exchanged a joyful look and then she said, “You can spend part of your summer vacations with Laurent if you want, but we’d like you to come see the house this weekend. See how you like it,” Then, she picked a tupperware from the desk and offered it to him, “I made you some pastries. If you don’t like them...just tell me, okay?” 

Nicaise nodded and took them, “I will. Thank you.”

She seemed content enough with the answer, and then beamed and watched Nicaise open the plastic container and munch on a tartlet. She pulled her chair closer to his, and they started to talk quietly. 

Meanwhile, Amelia and Angus started to ramble about paperwork, and Laurent was limited to watch on the edges. 

He was happy, though. And his heart and mind were tranquil. 

“I like seeing her happy,” Guillaume whispered, next to him. 

“She seems very kind,” Laurent said, using his mom’s words. 

“She has suffered too much, and I can never forgive myself for it,” Guillaume said. Laurent didn’t know what to do with this part of his teacher that was presented to him now. A sensible part that he didn’t know he had, “We had a daughter, but she died a few days after being born. We’ve been trying to have another baby, but the doctors tell us she just can’t.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“I think this might help both of them. At the very least, I do hope so.”

Laurent watched them. Nicaise was smiling, and talking between bites. Marion was listening, not missing one word. He couldn’t make out what the conversation was about, but by the look in Nicaise’s eyes, it was about music. 

Sometimes, like music, we just need to be listened.

 

 

***

“Wait,” Damen said, pulling away, “Wait a minute.”

Laurent leaned back, “What’s wrong?” 

“I have something for you.”

“You need to stop spoiling me, you know?”

“I will when I’m dead,” Damen replied, then got up from the bed and started to search for something inside a drawer. 

“So determined” Laurent said, laying back down on the cushions.

Grinning at him, “Infinitely.”

Laurent thought that by now the spell of laying naked next to Damen after sex would rub off. He also thought that, eventually, the charm of sleeping on the same bed and spooning every night would disappear. 

It didn’t. And it didn’t seem like it would any time soon. 

After a minute or so, Damen sat on the bed next to him, “A birthday present.” He said, and offered him a box. 

“My birthday was last month,” Laurent said. 

They had celebrated it, in fact. On May 27th, Damen drove them all —friends and Nicaise included— to the lake, and they had a picnic. 

He told them all he didn’t want any gifts, and although they didn’t comply, his point still standed.

“I know, but it’s too early to call it a Christmas present,” Damen smiled, “I wanted to have it ready for your birthday, but it took me longer than I thought.”

Shaking his head, Laurent sighed, “You’re hopeless.”

Damen responded by kissing him on the head, “I love you.”

Quietly, he said, “I love you, too.” 

The box was small and black, with a golden bow on top. There was...a familiar feeling to it. A tangling of anticipation in his fingers. 

_ What is it?  _

Slowly, he undid the bow and opened the lid. 

Looking inside, he let out a small gasp. He took it out carefully, and held it in his open hands. 

It was his music box. 

His broken music box, now repaired. It was still the same one, he could see the cracks where Damen had places the pieces back together, and he ran his fingers across them. 

It was like a reminder, of who he had been and who he was now. And of how things, even those that seemed irreparably damaged, like his heart, could still heal. 

“You fixed it,” Laurent whispered. 

“Here, try to wind it up,” Damen said, handing him the necklace with the key. 

Laurent did. Turning the key two times to the right, a beautiful, almost forgotten melody started to play when he opened the lid. 

He cleared his throat, and said, sincerely, “Thank you.”

“Sorry it took me so long.”

Laurent shook his head again, but said anything. 

_ You’re hopeless.  _

The kiss happened because it had to. Because after everything in every possible scenario had gone wrong, things were starting to clear up.

And even though they hadn’t figured out all of it, they were many steps closer than they had been in the beginning.

They were quiet and simple, almost chaste kisses. Kisses from the past, from every and each of their small victories. Kisses with meaning, remarking how much they cared for one another. 

How much they loved each other. 

It was past one in the morning, and Laurent moved to sit on his lap. The music box safe in the drawer of the nightstand. 

Against Damen’s soft lips, he whispered, “Make love to me again, would you?”

 

 

***

It was almost ironic, how it all began and ended with a single white envelope. 

Standing there, on his brother’s grave, Laurent had no words to say. 

He had gone there looking for gumption. Because when he was a child and afraid of the monsters in the dark, he ran to Auguste for exactly that: a little, tiny bit of gumption. . 

Laurent hadn’t visited the grave in months — probably since the only time he had brought his brother sunflowers, on the first month after his dead. He didn’t have the courage to come back ever since, but now, he only needed his brother.

Whether he was accepted or not, he wanted to be with Auguste when it happened. 

But no matter how much he tried, how many times he told his hands to rip off the paper, he couldn’t open it. He couldn’t move. 

His mind was going at least one kilometer per hour through the many possibilities of what could go right and wrong depending on the words written on that piece of paper. 

What if it all collapsed?

What if it all went wrong? 

“I found you.”

Laurent froze, like he had done almost a year ago when he had Damen’s voice again after so long. He froze, now, because he had been caught. 

Turning around, he said, “So you did.”

Damen looked at him, worry in his eyes, “You scared me.”

Laurent realized then he should have probably left a note, “I’m sorry.”

“Is…” he asked, carefully, “Everything alright?”

Holding up the envelope, Laurent said, “I got a letter from the conservatory this morning.”

Every school he had applied for abroad had been explicit about their desires to welcome him into the institution, to the point of it being overwhelming.

But the one he cared the most about hadn’t manifested itself yet, and it was nerve-wrecking.

True, he had talent and a very well-built reputation, but still Laurent couldn’t help but think those things weren’t enough. It wasn’t even about bragging, or plain modesty, he wasn’t as unassuming of his skills as Auguste, Laurent had spent his life learning the violin. 

He deserved a chance, now. 

“What does it say?”

“I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

“What if…” he started, and struggled for words. It was easier, before they had promised each other there would be no more lies and secrets. He was getting better at it, but he still struggled. “What if I’m not admitted?”

“You go to another school.”

“Yes, but I only applied to schools abroad. There’s Nicaise, and there’s...us. I don’t want to…”

_ Ruin it.  _

Damen stepped towards him, close enough to take his hand, “You know, when I woke up this morning and you weren’t there, I had a moment of panic. I thought that maybe I had done something wrong and I—I had to look for you. I can’t do the same mistake I did when I was seventeen.”

Laurent tried to recall the memory, “What do you mean?”

Damen swallowed, and for second Laurent got lost in the bobbing of his adam’s apple, “That day in Charcy, when you walked away from me. When you told me it was over. I should have done something. I should have followed you, or told you how much you meant to me. But I didn’t, because I was proud and hurt. And then, for four years I couldn’t stop thinking about how maybe if I had run after you that day, things would have been different for us. Maybe it would have been the same, but maybe not.”

“So, whether you stay here or go abroad, I’ll be by your side, if you let me.”

He had fallen in love with Damen in a strange way. There was something in the way he always looked at him, with kindness and admiration. How he spoke to him the words he needed to listen, even though sometimes they weren’t those he wanted. How he managed to calm him down with one touch, a simple brush of his fingers. 

There was something in Damen. 

Surprised, Laurent said, “Damen. That day in July, I was the one to walk away. It was my fault.”

“I let you walk away,” Damen replied, tucking a strand of hair behind Laurent’s ear, “So I think that makes us both equally guilty.” 

Laurent let out an involuntary breathy laugh, “ _ Connards _ .”  


“ _ Tellement _ .”

And, what if it all went right?

What if it all worked out?

What if? 

Damen and him had experience on that; the things they didn’t say, things they didn’t do, chances they missed out. It was enough. 

What they needed, now more than ever, was a little, tiny bit of something called gumption. 

“What if I decide to move to New Zealand?” Laurent asked.

“I’ll be there.”

“What if I suddenly have to move to Korea?”

“Korea sounds amazing,” Damen said. 

“What if neither of our plans work out?”

“We’ll make new ones.”

“What about your dream? The music box shop.”

“We’ll find a way,” Damen said, “Together.”

_ Together.  _

Laurent looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of doubt, of second-thought. But he found none. 

_ Gumption. _

He let go off Damen’s hand, and ripped open the envelope. Taking out the letter, he ignored the slight trembling of his hands as he scanned quickly through it and read, aloud, “We’re pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Arles Music Conservatory for the next school year 2017-2018, starting September.”

Laurent felt his knees go weak, and his vision blurry. There were tears he couldn’t stop, and for a minute he thought he would fall. It was the opposite of his world crumbling down, but rather resurfacing from the ashes.

“I got in, Auguste,” he said, though he didn’t meant to, “I’m going to study music.”

Staring at the grave, he read the name over and over again, waiting for a response that would never come. His brother’s voice, wherever he was now, couldn’t reach him. 

But he didn’t need to hear it, to know he was probably listening. 

Sometimes, we just need to be listened. 

“This time,” Laurent said, trying not to choke on his words, “I will make it right,  I promise you.” 

Pulling him into a hug, Damen whispered on his ear, “Congratulations, Vicomte.” 

The wind blew between them, a summer breeze taking the acceptance letter and his own tears with it. Laurent reached out trying to catch the paper, but it was too late. It was gone.

A gust of wind blew again, harder this time, making their shirts lift up and the rustling trees spread their leaves above them. They held onto each other by instinct, Damen placing his arms around his waist. 

Smiling, Laurent stared up at the sky, like he always did, “ _ Le vent se lève. _ ”

_ Things are going to change. _


	33. Il faut tenter de vivre

_Dear brother,_

_When we were children, you made me a promise. You said, once, that we’d never stop playing music together. That we’d always have each other._

_Ten years ago, you died._

_I’ve tried to write this letter to you many times, but I couldn’t seem to find the right words. For a while, all I wanted was to tell you everything that you were missing, but I didn’t know how to._

_How do you narrate the events of the past ten years in a single letter? It’s rather impossible, if you ask me. Just like trying to put the love of my life into a piece of music. —Not that you ever had any problem with that, considering the amount of songs you wrote for Victoria. But some of us are actually human here, not Mozart reincarnated.— Of course, I am to blame, for not writing to you before. I wish I had a good excuse, but unfortunately I have none._

_Maybe it’s because of the words. The act of being sincere, of speaking up what really is on my mind. I’ve never been good at it, you know that very well._

_When I was a child, I almost believed that I was defective. Broken, somehow. Because what I felt and what I meant were never the things I said. They transformed in my throat, from innocent to cunning, until I spit them into acid. And I couldn’t understand why I ended up hurting those I truly loved, when they didn’t deserve it nor did I._

_The only person who could read between those toxic lines of mine, was you, Auguste. You knew what I was thinking and feeling even before I got to realize myself. You knew, how badly in love I was with music, and how badly the separation from it would hurt me. You knew how great my life was going to be, before I even decided it was worth living._

_You were the first person to know how to love me, even before I knew how I deserved to be loved by anyone else._

_Thing is, you didn’t even need to tell me with words. Sometimes words are just that: letters on a page. You tried to show me what happiness felt like, without having to say anything. With music._

_I used to tell you music was not the answer to everything, and you were right to disagree each time. Because when you died, music became my guide. I didn’t want to follow it at first, I didn’t want to twist my hand because I was too proud to see that it was the right path._

_I was twenty, and young, and very idiotic. I felt as though continuing with music was losing a battle against my worst enemy; turns out, that enemy ended up being myself. Not music._

_I thought I knew everything there was to know, and that my feelings would never change. That I would always be equally miserable, lost and misunderstood.  But I am now thirty one, and I can’t begin to tell you how wrong I was._

_I’m thirty-one, older than you ever got to be, Auguste. It feels a bit strange, because you’ll always be my older brother, but I often wonder if the things I know now are part of that age experience you’ll never have._

_I wonder if you’ll understand me, even when you will forever be twenty-four, and I will keep growing old._

_It’s ironic, if you think about it. Because there I thought I would never live long enough to become a husband, or a father. And now I am both things at once. I never even thought I’d be able to care for someone else._

_I went from being a student in the Arles Music Conservatory to a first violin in the National Symphony Orchestra. And from being a boyfriend to a husband. And from being your brother, to being father of two children._

_Sometimes I feel life keeps spinning and I can never catch up with it. I don’t have time to prepare myself, to think things through, they just happen. And I often find myself in scenarios my past self wouldn’t believe are actually happening now; like playing the violin in stages all around the world. Being invited to charity events, and gala concerts and recording studios. Standing in front of a man I’ve loved since we were boys, with my heart racing so fast I think I’m going to faint. Barely breathing, a few minutes from being married._

_Being both terrified and overjoyed when they told us the baby we were expecting were actually twins._

_A day like today, ten years ago, I thought my life was over. I thought I was going to die and be buried with you._

_Turns out, life changes. It changes as fast and the wind rises._

_We called the babies Rosie and Eli.  They have gray eyes, and light brown hair. They were born on September 1st, 2021. I was coming back home after a month playing an opera in London, and somewhere in between two infinitely long flights, I got a call from Damen saying the mother of our future children was in the hospital._

_They were born early, and fortunately I made it in time. All I could think of, while sitting on that plane, was, “My kids definitely have no sense of opportunity.”_

_My kids._

_Because they were born before time, we couldn’t take them home immediately afterwards. But they were healthy, and breathing, and they changed my entire existence._

_During those first days of their lives we spent in the hospital, Damen was a restless puppy. He couldn’t contain his bubbling excitement and happiness, to the point the nurses kept on smiling and congratulating him for being a father._

_Meanwhile, I was busy with the adoption agent, signing papers and making copies and preparing everything for the birth certificates. Because clearly one of us had to keep on being functional, and that was me._

_A few days after we took them home, we had a celebration party in our house. Courtesy of Victoria and Jord, the godparents._

_In all honesty, the most I can remember from that day is the sound of Jord’s camera, capturing every possible angle of the tiny creatures in their cribs, and curious look on Victoria’s son as he peaked over to see his “two cousins.”_

_During most of the first year of her life, Rosie didn’t sleep. After trial and error, we found out that she seemed to enjoy the sound of my violin. And I often improvised, meddling pieces of Mozart and Schubert together, trying to lull her. Eventually, Damen and I wrote a lullaby._

_Eli, on the other hand, slept so much we had to wake him up several times to feed him — which of course he didn’t appreciate. And when he turned two years old, he spent most of his time in bed with tonsillitis._

_Being a parent has been hard and frustratingly exhausting, but at the same time it has been incredibly rewarding. I think Damen and I learn more from them than they do from us._

_Eventually, I decided to quit the National Symphony. I couldn’t trade my career for the family waiting for me at home, in spite of how much I enjoyed my job. Damen opposed to the idea, of course. He was willing to balance the life we had decided to build together just so I could have a dream of my own. But...after everything we’ve been through, it didn’t feel right._

_And I thought of you. I thought of how short our time here is. I thought of how I felt growing up without our parents._

_So, after one final tour, I started helping Damen with the music boxes shop. Whenever I’m not teaching the violin, I write songs for him to use._

_There have been times in the past years where I’ve missed the orchestra. Many, in fact. But something about waking up on Sunday mornings to blow bubbles in the backyard has a special charm I’m sure I’m not going to find anywhere else._

_There’s a special charm in everything we do together, the four of us. It’s the same sentiment I used to get whenever you and me spent time together. The exact same feeling I used to get when we made music._

_And you know? They remind me so much of you, Auguste. Both of them. They’re kind, and caring, and careful, and smart, and playful and so in love with being alive._

_I’m proud of them. Every day a little more._

_They make me happy._

_Even when there are tough times, even when sometimes we struggle, Rosie and Eli make us happy._

_Victoria and I made a bet the other day, about which of the two would turn out to be a pianist. I thought maybe I could make them both lean towards the violin, but Eli just recently told me he wants to play the piano._

_You were right. Once they find it, there’s no going back._

_I don’t think there’s a day I don’t find them playing songs in the living room, asking me to teach them, fighting over who gets to have a lesson first and Damen solving the problem by flipping a coin._

_You would teach them better, I’m sure. Especially Eli. But I thought maybe Victoria could help me a little when she comes visit. She has been teaching her son as well. His name is Augusto._

_She said she too writes you letters, sometimes. So you probably know this already, maybe you know more than me. Augusto looks exactly like her, except for the fact that he has green eyes._

_Whenever they come from Italy, Jord and Nikandros come over as well. They have a daughter now, named Helena. She claps whenever she hears Tchaikovsky, and she seems to be in love with Nicaise, for the way she smiles and giggles whenever he’s carrying her._

_All the children seem to like him, actually. But we think it’s more because he brings them presents every time he visits. He’s starting a solo career, now.  He’s currently very popular in the music world, after the Berlin Phil invited him to play the Sibelius Violin Concerto. From what I heard, it made Guillaume cry._

_This letter is already longer than I intended it to be. I just figured you’d like to know these things, since they’re the kind of stuff you would probably enjoy._

_I wish you were here. I wish Rosie and Eli had the chance to get to know you like I did. But I know you’re part of their lives, in a way._

_I know you’re still part of all of us, and that you will forever be. And I hope that maybe my children will get to know you through your music. I hope that they also learn to love you, by playing one of your songs._

_After all, it is like you said, isn’t it?_

_You became music._

_And if they grow to love music as you and I do, then I guess they will also grow to love you, without having met you._

_Whenever I play the violin now, I like to think you’re listening. You probably aren’t, but it helps to imagine you are._

_You said you broke a promise, but you didn’t, Auguste. Because I find you in each of my notes, in each draw of the bow on the strings of my violin. You’re there in every melody I play, and every music box Damen makes._

_You were right all along; life can be exceptional and extraordinary. It’s worth every risk, and every tear. And I guess that what I’m meaning to say with all this, what I’ve always meant to say, is thank you._

_Thank you for believing I could be something more, thank you for taking care of me, thank you for your sacrifices and your efforts and your smiles. Thank you for making music with me, thank you for being so patient._

_Thank you for listening to me and advising me.  Thank you for comforting me. Thank you for telling me stories. Thank you for the memories, and the adventures._

_Thank you for existing by my side, thank you for being my older brother. And my friend, and my inspiration._

_Thank you for the étude._

_I don’t know if this will reach you, but if it does, know that I love you. Know that I miss you, but that I’m well. And I’m happy._

_And that I still play for you, every day._

 

 _-_ __Laurent._ _

 

_P.S. The children want to play a song for you when we go visit you. Can you guess which one is it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are.  
> This story has ended. 
> 
> First of all, I want to apologize for the delay. I know I promised to update on the anniversary, two days ago. But turns out the epilogue I spent a whole week working on didn't satisfy me. It wasn't good, so I decided to start all over again. This epilogue is shorter than the other one, but I truly like it. I'm happy with every single word written here, so I really hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Now...I want to say that I will miss you. All of you. I mean I don't know most of you but I will miss you. You're so precious to me. You were such a big part of my life for a whole year, along with these characters. 
> 
> This is so hard, oh God. I don't want to say goodbye. Not to you or to them. I know it's a bit dramatic, considering I will keep writing, even if it's not on AO3, and my characters will still be alive in my heart. But I'm not good with goodbyes. Not even if they're for a little while. 
> 
> Writing Étude has been one of the best experiences of my life, even though I chose to write it when everything was going absolutely wrong. It gave me the chance to do something amazing, in spite of all the bad circumstances. There were moments I just wanted to give up, because I couldn't see why I was still living. Many of those times concluded in me continuing for Étude. Because I wanted to finish it. 
> 
> So thank you, for reading. Thank you, thank you for everything. Thank you, all of you: betas, readers, supporters, friends, mutuals, family, thank you for all the help, thank you for believing in me and Lo. 
> 
> And please, never stop doing what you love. It's such a cliché thing to say, but it is so true. If there is something you truly, truly enjoy, then please keep doing it. Give yourself the chance to be happy. Whether it's playing the violin, writing a novel, making music boxes, taking pictures, singing, or just looking at the sky, please, don't let it go. 
> 
> There will always be something that makes life seem not worth a shot, believe me, I know. But sometimes, small things like an étude, can be enough reason to want to see another morning. 
> 
> This is where I say goodbye.  
> You know where to find me, if you ever want to reach me. Étude has a long way to go now, to become and original novel. But there'll be no new content, as for now.  
> What am I going to write next? I have a few ideas. One of them could make it into AO3, some others might not. We'll see.  
> Until then, I'm going to be selfish and ask you not to forget about me, or my story. 
> 
> And when the wind blows, remember, things are about to change.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> You can find me on twitter as @princesgambit and on tumblr as @dearanemone

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Étude: The Haunted House](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8438485) by [xlydiadeetz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xlydiadeetz/pseuds/xlydiadeetz)
  * [Étude: Waltz of the Candles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9218528) by [xlydiadeetz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xlydiadeetz/pseuds/xlydiadeetz)
  * [Étude: String Poetic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10888551) by [xlydiadeetz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xlydiadeetz/pseuds/xlydiadeetz)




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